


Unvollendete

by Lullabyes



Category: Blood+, Blood: The Last Vampire
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Black Humor, Blood and Gore, Everything Hurts, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Multi, NYC, New York City, Past Relationship(s), Retro, Self-Harm, nothing is right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 05:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 36
Words: 158,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5404034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lullabyes/pseuds/Lullabyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SayaxHaji. Set in 1968, NYC. On a Chiropteran-hunt where nothing is as it seems, Saya and Haji must learn the difference between duty to the mission, and to each other—or risk losing everything in between. Angst, secrets, and intrigue. COMPLETE!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Movement: Prelude

 

* * *

  **Unvollendete** : Schubert's famous 'Unfinished Symphony'.

* * *

The sound of birch-whip hitting skin echoed through the door.

Saya winced.

"Damnation, sir. What did you mean by it?"

Joel's voice was controlled but furious. Livid waves radiated through the oakwood she was pressed against. She'd never heard him speak in such a tone before. But why would he? Gentlemen did not raise their voices before ladies.

Among two-faced sneaks—it was different.

"Are you  _aware_  of the damage your recklessness could have caused?"

A murmur, too soft for even her ears. The tone was apologetic, but not pleading.

No, of course not. Haji wouldn't plead.

Not even when punished for something entirely  _her_  fault.

Another  _craack_  of birch on skin. Saya pressed her fingers to her lips to smother a gasp. If she made a noise, the three men on the other side of the door would hear her. But if she couldn't stop them, couldn't intervene on Haji's behalf—

The third  _craack_  made her stomach shrivel, a salted snail gushing bile up her throat.

_Stop._

Haji made no sound, although she half-heard a muffled grunt. She could picture him hunched over the wooden flogging-horse, lily-pale in the basement's flickering gaslight. Joel standing over him with both hands crossed sternly behind his back, while the broad-shouldered stableman brandished the birch-whip for another vicious swing.

The stableman hated Haji—the little  _Roma_  boy who pranced in finery like his betters, who wined and dined among the Goldschmidts as an equal. Twelve-year-old Haji had once told Saya about his scathing glares and filthy remarks.

Five years later, Saya still remembered.

_He's probably enjoying putting Haji in his so-called place now._

Rage filled her. The dim corridor with its damp granite blocks melted into crimson. Her fingers curled on the door's brass latch.

She had to stop them—tell them whose fault it really was.

_It was me._

_I'm the one who bullied Haji into sneaking us out of the Zoo. I'm the one who made him arrange for a carriage while Joel was away. I'm the one who convinced him to show me the village outside the grounds._

_It was_ me _._

She'd thought she was being so clever at the time. Slipping out without Joel's notice. She'd been confined to the Zoo for so many years. She so longed to see what lay beyond its walls. If only as far as the village twenty miles off—St. Emilion. Haji was sent there all the time on errands; he was familiar with the routes and people. He could show her around for a few hours, and take her back by the first shadow of nightfall.

It was child-simple.

 _Saya, we should not do this,_  Haji had said. _Joel will be furious if he finds out._

He'd recited that litany as she haggled him into ordering a carriage. Repeated it as she stuffed her hair under a strawboater hat, slipped on the shirt and trousers she'd made him borrow from one of the kitchenboys, and blackened her upper-lip with cork.

The freedom of wearing trousers, and no corset, had made her giddy. Examining her reflection in the mirror, she'd remembered thinking, _So_   _this is what it feels like to be a man._

Haji's eyes had taken in her ' _revolting appearance'_  with a wealth of misgiving.

_Please, Saya. Lets forget about sneaking out. I have a bad feeling about this._

Stubborn, Saya had drawn the line.  _Haji—either you come with me, or I'll go by myself. But I_ am _going to see that village, whether you approve or not._

 _But_   _Saya—_

 _Please, Haji._ A coaxing smile.  _It would be better if you were there too. I wouldn't have as much fun by myself. Please?_

She'd known he wouldn't argue after that. However much he objected to her ludicrous schemes, Haji was fundamentally incapable of denying her anything.

Even if his consequent punishment outweighed  _hers_.

Of course, she hadn't thought about consequences then. It hadn't occurred to her that Amshel, who'd stayed behind in Joel's stead, would have men watching the grounds. That one of them would spot her and Haji at the Zoo's back entrance, by the gateway reserved for tradesmen. The man had wasted no time in informing Amshel. Who'd put two and two together in a twinkling.

Saya and Haji were waylaid before they'd even boarded the carriage.

Now, Saya flinched at the sharp  _craacks_  sounding behind the door. Her sweaty fingers tightened on the latch.

_Stop._

She'd played witness to Haji's thrashings several times before. In his early months at the Zoo, before domestic docility had yet to sink in, he'd been more difficult to restrain—surly and disobedient. He'd enter without knocking, leave without dismissal, ignore direct orders, and talk back to his betters, all with blunt insolence. More than once, Amshel had ordered the boy whipped for impertinence; tutors would apply a tawse on him if he ever acted up; the cook would give him a smack or two to knock the stubborn cheek out of him. But in each case, the measures were seen as correctional, never cruel.

Unlike servants' children, who had the fearful veneration of master and home trodden into them at an early age, Haji was raised as a rootless gypsy on merciless ever-changing streets.

In his world, defiance was not an act of malice—but simple survival.

 _That boy is not so easy to break,_  she'd once heard Joel remark to Amshel.

 _True,_  Amshel said complacently. _But there are simpler ways of breaking someone._

Saya's eyes narrowed. She could hear Haji's ragged breathing on the other side of the door. The basement pulsed with waves of debasement and pain, like the inside of a torture-chamber.

Suddenly, she realized what Amshel meant.

_I have to stop this._

A vast shadow fell across the door.

"Saya."

Startled, she spun. "What—? Oh."

_Speak of the Devil._

Amshel loomed over her, hands clasped behind his broad back. The lamplight cast half his face in shadow, highlighting the other half in red. His gaze was cool as flint.

"You know perfectly well you are not supposed to be here."

She ignored the warning in his tone. "I need to speak with Joel. Haji had nothing to do with this!"

Amshel's eyes narrowed, disdain in every lineament of his face. "That idiotic boy caused more damage than either of you realize yet. His punishment is but half of what he deserves."

"But it was my idea to—"

"Regardless. It is his responsibility to watch over you. Not encourage such indiscretions. He must be taught the importance of duty."

As if to underline that, another  _craack_  rang out. And Saya heard, distinctly, Haji's howl.

Flinching, she spun to the door. Automatically, Amshel took her arm. The grip was polite but firm. "You are not supposed to be here. Come away."

"But Haji—"

"His fate is not upto you to decide."

"B-but—" Her lower-lip quivered. "But what if—?"

"Pardon?"

"What if Joel sends him away?"

The idea held a powerful terror for her. She'd grown so used to having Haji at the Zoo, in her life. The thought of his absence was not unbearable, but  _anomalous_.

Amshel sneered. "No doubt Joel might. It would be a fitting sentence."

"But it wasn't his fault!"

"That is up to your guardian to determine. Not  _you_. In the meantime, I will escort you back upstairs. And please have the maid help you out of that  _disgusting_  outfit."

At his scornful glance, she realized she was still wearing the shirt and trousers Haji had given her. Her hair hung disheveled, and half her face was still smeared with cork. Any other lady would've been mortified with her own slovenly appearance.

Saya just tipped her chin up and met Amshel's gaze, as good as she got.

She always hated the way he looked at her. Like she was an animal from Joel's menagerie—undeserving of any sentiment. A handful of years later, she'd learn the true basis of his contempt. Which would make her hate him all the more.

"Is there something you find amusing, Amshel?"

"Not at all." Amshel's tone was bland. He offered her an arm, but made it clear, the way he held his elbow for her to crook her hand into, that he did not want her walking too close to him.

Saya didn't move. "But Haji—"

"He must be taught not to put caprice before duty. As must you. I doubt Joel will regard your actions favorably."

She knew he wouldn't—in fact, the idea of what he might say or do was already forming a knot in her stomach. But Amshel's cold eyes were on her, probing for the slightest signs of dismay to feed on. She would give him none.

"That is up to my guardian to determine. Not  _you_."

Amshel's lip curled. "Of course."

He took her by the arm, and she let herself be steered away, even as her eyes flitted to the door. The last thing she heard, as Amshel and she ascended the staircase, was another  _craack_ , and the echo of Haji's cry.

Her heart sank.

_Haji…_

_I'm sorry…_

* * *

The maid helped her wash up, put her in a nightdress and peignoir, and combed her hair at the dressing table.

Dazed, Saya stared past her own reflection, at the pink rose in its dainty vase. The ones Haji always brought her in unspoken tradition—like a fragrant  _hello_. She imagined Joel sending Haji away, and the vase left bare thereon. It seemed a dreary embodiment of her life at the Zoo itself.

_Haji—_

A bolt of terror seized her. She nearly shoved the maid aside, ready to race down to the basement and find her friend.

There was a knock on her door. "Saya?"

Pulse leaping, she turned. But in the time it took the maid to open the door, she'd recognized the voice.

Joel.

Her guardian stepped in without meeting her eyes. He was still wearing his formal tailcoat and gloves, a pearl tack glittering mightily on his silk puff tie. After Amshel sent him news of Haji's and Saya's spree, he'd returned from town directly, and gone upstairs to see Haji, locked by Amshel in the study. Saya had tried to hound the butler into letting her see Joel, but been refused.

 _Beg your pardon, mademoiselle,_  the butler had harrumphed,  _but it's the master's orders._

This had chilled her. The first face Joel always requested to see, upon returning home, was his little darling's.

The fact that he hadn't made her understand something was terribly wrong.

Dismissing the maid, Joel shut the door behind him. The pale lamplight accentuated the fine wrinkles on his face, but his expression was difficult to read. Nervous, Saya watched him from the corner of her eye.

She'd never felt afraid of him in her life, but she was now.

Until he drew closer, and she saw his face. He did not seem angry or upset. Just… tired. More tired than she had ever truly seen him.

"Joel. I…"

A smile, wan but warm. "You mustn't look so frightened, Saya. I am not here to chastise you."

Relief expanded her lungs. Leaping up, she ran to him. His hug was secure, familiar; the tweedy scent of his coat touching a part of her memory from long past. For him, she'd always be the little princess who flounced around the mansion in a cloud of frills and laughter—above all rules or blame.

"My girl, my girl," murmured Joel. "You put me through quite a shock today. You know better than to frighten me this way at my age."

"I-I'm sorry, Joel."

"Yes. I know you are." He draw back to study her. "Amshel told me that you were down in the basement earlier. Is it true that you orchestrated today's mishap?"

"Yes. It's all true. Haji had nothing to do with it! It was my fault, Joel—I'm sorry!"

He sighed. "I suspected it was your idea. Haji would not breathe a word, but I could tell."

"You shouldn't have punished him! He had no reason to take the blame for what I did!"

"I disagree. He was charged with the duty to look after you. He knows better than to let you run amok this way."

 _Duty_.

The same word Amshel had used earlier. The sound of it made her feel ill.

"He was only going along with what I wanted! He didn't deserve to be thrashed!" A lump knotted her throat. "Please—where is he? Is he all right?"

"He'll be fine. He's young and strong. He'll recover with some beef tea and rest."

"May I see him?"

Joel shook his head. "You'd be best to leave off for tonight, Saya. See him in a few days, when he's more presentable."

 _Presentable?_ In their childhood, Haji had seen her prance around the rain-dripping barn in naught but her chemise and knickers. And Saya had been privy to several bedside visits when he'd caught that bad case of chickenpox three years ago, and was covered all over in lurid red spots. There was no such concept as  _presentablility_  between them.

"But Joel—"

"Now now. I am sure you can afford to be patient. In the meantime, I think we need to talk." He gently clasped her hands in his, guiding her back to the vanity. When she was seated, he leaned against the dresser on gloved palms, regarding her intently. "Why did you want to sneak out of the Zoo, Saya? What was this nonsense all about?"

"We—were only going to the village beyond the grounds, Joel. We planned to come back before nightfall."

"The village? Do you mean St. Emilion?"

"Yes. I just—wanted to see what it looked like. I wanted to be someplace new, outside the Zoo's walls."

"Did it perhaps occur to you to request my permission? I could have arranged for Amshel to accompany you and Haji on your sojourn."

"I—" She wasn't sure what to say. How could she explain that she'd wanted to make this journey independently? Just her and Haji—free to blend in with normal people. "It wouldn't have been the same with Amshel, Joel. It just  _wouldn't_."

"Oh?" Joel's look was gentle, but appraising. "You weren't planning to run away with Haji, were you?"

" _What_?"

She sounded so flabbergasted that Joel smiled. "Nothing, really. Just something Amshel mentioned. I should've known not to believe him."

"Joel, can't I please see Haji? Amshel said you were going to send him away. You aren't, are you?"

"Send him away? No. Not at this point. Although I am very disappointed in both of you, Saya. I expected better."

"I—I'm sorry." She dropped her gaze, both to seem contrite, and hide her relief at the news of Haji's excusal. Inside, she was already calculating the best opportunity to sneak out and see him. "I promise, I won't do anything of the sort again. Honor bright."

"Honor bright, hm?" Joel sighed. "You say that every week before I catch wind of more mischief. When will you mend your ways?"

She put on a guilty look and did her best to blush. "This is the last time. I swear."

"If I had a  _franc_  for every time I heard you say that…" Smiling, Joel touched her cheek. His manner was all warmth, no signs of that steely anger she'd sensed when he was chastising Haji in the basement. It made her realize, with a shock, there were far more sides to Joel than the paternal tenderness he lavished on her.

And made her wonder if she'd care for him at all, if she hadn't done so all her life.

"Now, Saya. It's late and you must go to bed. Shall I send for the maid in case you need anything?"

"I—no. It's all right."

"Very well." She let him help her up, then tuck her into the four-poster bed like he'd sometimes done when she was very little. Drawing the covers to her chin, Joel paused, serious. "I want you to promise you will be more careful, Saya. The idea of you wandering around town unaccompanied—it is extremely distressing to me."

"I promise, Joel. I'll ask your permission the next time."

"Good." He smoothed her hair. "You must understand, Saya. There are… dangers beyond the Zoo's walls. Dangers you are completely unschooled in dealing with." It might've sounded patronizing, if his tone weren't so earnest. "I know if you ventured out there, you'd have a friend in Haji. But Haji is, in many ways, still a boy. There are certain things even he could not defend you from."

"Joel—" She couldn't think of a time he'd spoken so candidly to her. Not as a vivacious princess or spoilt little puss. But just as…  _herself_.

"I do not say this to upset you, Saya. Just to warn you. Time marches relentlessly for me, and I fear I cannot always be there to protect you. I only ask you to remember something. The world outside is not the same as the Zoo. And the people you meet there will not be the same as myself. Nor will their intentions."

Unbidden, Saya thought of the unpleasant gleam in Amshel's eyes.

"I—I understand, Joel."

"I hope so." Smiling pensively, Joel straightened her blankets. "Now go to sleep. Tomorrow, when I find the time, I'll accompany you to St. Emilion myself."

This appeased her. She settled back in her pillows. "May Haji come along?"

"Not so soon. Give him time to rest."

"Oh—all right."

"Goodnight, Saya."

"Goodnight."

She watched him extinguish the candles on the dressing-table, then heard the soft click of the door opening and shutting. Lying in the dark, she waited for the soft tread of his footsteps to fade.

Then, once the coast was clear, she leapt out of bed, slipped on her peignoir, and snuck into Haji's room.

* * *

Joel had shifted Haji from the servants' quarters to a room in the east wing four years ago. Said room was a flight of stairs above Saya's; connected by a corridor where candles burned between rows of paintings. The location put it, in a word, ideal for sneaking out of and into. (Years later, upon learning  _why_  Haji was shipped to the Zoo, she'd realize how  _deliberate_  this was.)

Pausing barefoot at Haji's door, she knocked quietly. In the past, she'd forgone such nicety and burst in unannounced. But when Haji had turned fourteen, he'd mysteriously begun locking his door at night. And whenever she'd badger him about it in the mornings, he'd blush and stammer so defensively she became convinced he was doing something terrible and riddled in guilt. She'd been tempted to tell Joel, but that would've invited questions on what she herself was doing out of bed so late, so she'd let the issue be.

Nowadays, Haji left the door open until a quarter past ten—all the while mumbling unconvincingly about how improper it was for her to keep sneaking into his room this way. They'd sit up half the night swapping ghost stories and playing poker, or tiptoeing to Amshel's study to take puffs from his imported glass-bellied  _hookah_ , which boasted hallucinogenic effects, but which only made them cough and taste dead grass in their mouths, or else creeping to the kitchen to steal leftover tarts and eat them hidden between the library's bookshelves, poring through Joel's untouchable medical volumes at illustrations of cadavers and making up horrifying meanings for the scientific terms they didn't know.

Tonight's visit was more urgent.

"Hello?" She rapped her knuckles softly on the wood. "Haji?"

Silence.

For a moment she wondered if he was asleep. Guilt pierced her. He'd been through so much today already. Perhaps she should heed Joel's advice and let him rest.

She was about to go, when she heard a croaky voice call, "…Saya?"

It was a magic incantation. Whirling, she grabbed the latch. His door was unlocked; a single candle burning at the nightstand threw huge shadows on the walls as she burst in.

Compared to the opulence of the mansion, Haji's room was astonishingly simple—a single bed, a dresser, and a desk. On his washstand were a set of straight-razors, the bay-rum soap his hands always smelled of, and a silver-backed comb she'd given him two years ago as a gift. Three plain collar-studs and a pair of gloves—both hand-me-downs from Joel—lay on the dresser. The desk was stacked with old books and sheet music.

Virtually nothing in the room, save for Haji's blue hair-ribbon, belonged to him personally. But while it should've given the room a gloomy transient air, it just seemed neat. Saya often asked Haji if he'd like personal trinkets to liven the room up with. But Haji had replied, in an embarrassed sort of way, that he had everything he needed, at least until he was in a position to somehow repay Joel for taking him in.

Her friend was like that; concentrating more on what he could do than what he couldn't. His quiet pragmatism, born from a childhood of ruthless change, often made Saya embarrassed of the petty grudges she tended nurse over little things like ill-fitting dresses or strict governesses.

Indeed, in the years of the war, it would make her wonder if a sheltered childhood was a disadvantage, insufficient at toughening you up for a brutal world where more exposed people found it easier to stay whole while you yourself fell apart.

" _Haji_!"

She found her friend propped up in bed with a pillow. He was bare from waist-up, chest swathed in stiff-looking bandages, hair falling undone around his face. A small fox-ear book dangled from his pale fingers. In the plain narrow room, he seemed too tall, too well-cut—more a surreal centerpiece than a person.

At seventeen, he was already a head taller than she, and Joel said he would grow taller still. He barely resembled the surly ragamuffin Amshel had whisked off the streets five years ago—which was what startled strangers the most. Everything about him, from his immaculate poise to the consummate elegance of his appearance, seemed to stem from a lineage of decadent aristocracy.

Often, Saya fancied that her friend was no gypsy, but the cast-off son of some faraway tsar. Often, cynical adults murmured that Haji was not Joel's adopted ward, but his illegitimate son by a former mistress.

Whatever his mystifying origins, his looks were beginning to startle. These days, Saya noticed how young ladies would coyly flirt with him at parties; older matrons would pause to discreetly watch his progress across the ballroom; gentlemen would politely inquire what title his family held and where their estate was based—none of them realizing that this was the same boy who, five years ago, had stood invisible in a corner serving refreshments.

No doubt someone with a shrewd social acumen would've noticed one or two slips of etiquette and realized Haji was not a born Goldschmidt. However his bearing was so perfect, his conduct so precise, that no once could quite believe relentless rumors of how Amshel had bought the boy off a family of street-musicians either.

"Saya!" Seeing her, Haji started to rise—or perhaps grab a shirt. Just as quickly, he slumped back, the book dropping with a  _thud_. His voice was strained. "Saya—wh-what are you doing here?"

"I came to see  _you,_ stupid! Are you all right?"

"Saya, you should not be out here. You'll get into worse trouble if Joel finds out—"

"Joel doesn't know I'm here. Stop worrying so much." She sidled closer. "Are you all right, Haji? You don't look all right at all."

He dropped his gaze. "I-I'm fine. The cuts do not require stitches."

"Cuts?" Belatedly, she noticed faint red bloodstains on the bandages along his back. Her heart shot to her throat. "Haji—how hard did the stableman hit you?"

"Not nearly hard enough." A faint smile curved his lips. "I once cracked two ribs as a boy, when I was caught buzzing from a fruit vendor, do you know? Compared to that, this is nothing."

He was putting on a brave face. But even she could tell he was in pain.

"The… cuts must sting you, though."

"That will stop soon. I simply have to ensure that they breathe through the bandages, and wait until they scab over. At any rate, they don't sting as much as during the whipping. The stableman soaked the birch rod in brine."

" _Brine_? That's dis _gus_ ting! Why would he do that?"

"Apparently it prevents infection that way. But… I really think it's to make the blows smart worse."

"D-did you order someone to fetch you a doctor?"

A smile, ironic and a little resigned. "It is not as bad as it looks. And I am really in no position to summon a doctor the way one would a footman."

The double-meaning wasn't lost on her. It struck her that the thrashing hadn't been a disciplinary measure so much as a reminder of Haji's place. He may have been treated, ostensibly, as a family member. But he would never be allowed to forget the degradation he'd been taken out of, and might easily be thrust back into if he overstepped his bounds.

Saya felt a burst of rage.

_This isn't fair._

Haji stared at her. "What?"

"This—this is so unfair! You did nothing wrong! They had no right to punish you!"

"Saya, it is not a question of right or wrong. I was brought to the Zoo to watch over you. If Joel feels I strayed from that purpose, he is perfectly within rights for being angry."

"Perfectly within  _rights_? You're actually  _condoning_  what happened?"

He hid a wince. "I am condoning nothing. But it is not my place to argue. I hold no status in this household, and I live on Amshel and Joel's sufferance. Until I've reached a position to enforce my own will, I must do as I am told."

He sounded, thought Saya, like a music-box saying that. A motorized monotony of sound. The sudden urge to shriek at him, kick him, made her head buzz. "I can't believe this! The least you could've done was told Amshel the outing was my idea!"

"It would have made no difference. If your word were weighed against mine, whom do you think Amshel would have believed?"

She stamped her foot. "He would have believed  _you_! You're always more truthful than I am!"

"Truthfulness had little to do with it." He hesitated. "You understand what is meant by 'saving face', don't you?"

She nodded, even as she wasn't sure what he meant.

"Saya—the fact that we almost snuck out of the Zoo, that we did something so seditious under Amshel's nose—he would never let it go unpunished. Otherwise, it would mean he was losing control over the mansion in Joel's absence. Therefore an example had to be set. But Amshel would never vent his anger on you."

"On  _me_?" she huffed. "Oh, I should like to see him try."

The corner of his mouth twitched. But his face remained serious. "Saya—I live here under Joel's charity. He can easily take away my privileges if I cross my limits. But that isn't why he had me reprimanded. He did it to ensure that Amshel would not take the matter into his own hands. It was about soothing his ego, not keeping me in line."

She hadn't considered it from that angle. The fact that Haji's punishment could be born from calculation, not righteous anger, was unthinkable. For the second time today, the fabric of her enchanted dollhouse ripped open to show a glimpse of a pitiless adult realm.

"Y-you could have at least  _tried_  to plead your case!"

"Arguing with Joel would only have made things worse." Haji's head fell back on the pillow. The brief burst of energy faded; his half-lidded eyes slipped shut. Saya realized what a strain he was putting on himself, talking to her this way. She remembered Joel once saying how some people withdrew into themselves during crisis. Haji had always been one of them.

It reminded her of those tiny armadillos scuttling around the gardens—how they rolled into their shells upon attack, conserving strength by not fighting against what they believed to be impossible odds.

She wondered what past atrocity had beaten such a quality into Haji.

"Did… Joel speak to you, after what happened?" Haji asked then.

"Y-Yes."

"And? You are not in trouble, are you?"

"No." She dropped her gaze. "I'm not."

_Apparently, venting their displeasure on you was enough._

He let off a sigh. "I'm glad. There is no reason for you to take the brunt of this punishment."

"Even if it was my fault?"

"It doesn't matter. I was brought here with the duty of looking out for you."

"By that, you mean Joel expected you to play my constant scapegoat?" She intended caustic criticism. But what came out was wrath.

Haji's eyes opened. "What?"

She couldn't answer. The room was a sudden cauldron; boiling her temper into the heights of rage.

Uneasy, Haji leaned forward, long legs tenting the sheets. "Saya—what's the matter?"

" _Nothing_." Even as she struggled to tamp her fury, she realized which word of his singed her so.  _Duty_. It was a side of Haji she was becoming aware of. A side she'd seen on Joel, on Amshel, and on every man she came into contact with. That unspoken layer of distance, of grown-up reserve, as if they were dealing with a pampered angel—but not, in any way, an equal.

Turning her back on Haji, she spat, "You talk as if you were under some agonizing obligation to keep me out of trouble, do you know that? As if I'm an idiotic child. I'm old enough to carry my own blame. You have no reason to defend me."

"Saya. You know that is not what I meant. But it is my duty to—"

" _Duty_?" Again, the word bit like a lash. A burning congestion filled her eyes. "Is that all you see your time with me as? Some sort of stupid obligation?"

"No—that isn't what I meant. I only—"

" _What_? You admitted that you only endured the thrashing because you had no choice. Without Joel's sufferance, you would be nowhere. Is that the only reason you put up with me too?"

"Saya." Shock vibrated in his voice. "You're misconstruing everything I say. You know perfectly well I don't—"

"I don't know  _anything_!" She whirled to face him. In the flickering candlelight, her eyes swum with tears. Haji flinched, and she felt a flash of shame at feeling so small before him. Her voice sounded to her like a child's. "I understand your life before coming here wasn't easy. Who could blame you for—for wanting something different? B-but if that's the only reason you tolerate being my friend—"

"Saya—no! How could you think—?"

Her tears fell in a spasm. "Because before you came to live here, no one but Joel would come  _near_  me! The servants are afraid of me! I scare off all the animals! Even Amshel keeps his distance—but I've never liked him anyway, so that's just as well! Except I can't understand  _why_! Do I scare people off because I'm not—normal? Or—"

"Saya." He reached for her. She stiffened, tears rolling down her face as pride roiled within. Too distraught to see the parallels of this moment to another, years ago. When a small boy with resentful eyes and tear-stained cheeks had stood just as rigidly as she. Inviting first pity, then a painful understanding in return.

Haji's hand clasped hers; his grip was wonderfully tight. He drew her down to sit beside him. No one in the entire household—not even Joel—was as sure of her as he was. Sniffling, she pressed her face into the crook of his neck. His skin smelled salty, with a pungent undertone of herbs. His arm came around her, first tentative, then tight as a rampart.

Five years ago, he'd been small enough to fit in her lap, with narrow boy-shoulders and hands like seashells. Now, it was the opposite. Curled against him, she felt like a fairy-wisp from a Richard Dadd painting.  _Pocket Venus_ , Haji sometimes teasingly called her, and she'd be too miffed to catch the subtle compliment.

He was growing up, and the knowledge gutted her, reminding how she remained stoppered in time. In the past, she'd simply taken this for granted, and child-Haji had done the same. But he wasn't a child anymore. Soon he was bound to notice her abnormalities. Already, she could see the wariness building in his eyes when animals fled from her path. Twice now, she'd overhead him questioning servants about the blood served to her every evening, and where it came from.

The situation would worsen as he grew. Soon he'd want to know the truth about her origins. And it chilled that she'd have no answer to give him.

How could she explain why she was this way, when she didn't know herself?

"You're an unusual person," Haji murmured then. "Some might even call you odd."

Stunned, she looked at his face. He could read  _minds_  now?

But he was only replying to her earlier outburst. "Saya—it is true that certain things about you … are strange. But no one in this household is normal to begin with. Look at me. Loud noises give me headaches, the ladies at parties bore me, and I'm more interested in cello than I am in going hunting. Joel dips a ball of dough in all his drinks and feeds it to the dogs because he's always afraid of getting poisoned. Amshel has an unnatural fear of dirt and keeps washing his hands every time he touches someone—even if it's by accident. Doesn't that strike you as strange? I'm sure that in most families, there are one or two relatives who are utterly insane. But here, the madness is divided equally. You have no reason to think there is something wrong with you. There really isn't."

In any situation, Haji was prone to few words. So this, coming from him, was practically a speech. Saya opened her mouth, but no words came. A strange pressure cramped her throat. For a moment she thought she might cry. Then something bubbled past her lips, curling and splitting them open, and she realized what it was.

Laughter.

Caught in a giggling fit, she pressed her forehead to Haji's shoulder. Unsure where this hilarity surged from; unable to do anything but let it unravel the tension of this horrible day. Haji chuckled too, low in his throat, but stopped when it hurt the wounds on his back. His hand came up to brush the hair from her face.

"I am glad you find the idea of living in a madhouse so cheering."

"It—it's not that." She tried in vain to stop laughing. If she was too loud, a servant might hear. "Just—is all that really true? What you just said about Joel and Amshel?"

"Every word."

"Amshel—is afraid of dirt?"

"Disgusted. Why do you think he carries that customized fork and knife in his coat? He cannot stand the idea of anyone's mouth on his cutlery, save his own."

"But then—" A naughty idea bloomed. "Haji—as soon as you're better, let's get some fertilizer from the garden. We'll take it upstairs in a gunny-sack, stand by the window until Amshel comes back from his evening stroll, and then we'll—"

"Sa- _ya_." He always had a talent for injecting disapproval, irony, affection, or any other emotion on the spectrum into that word.

She pouted. " _Fine_. No doubt it's too much to hope that Amshel will catch the burner from some bleached mort in Paris instead."

Haji grimaced. "Saya—you know better than to talk like that. It is no language for a lady to use."

"So claims the boy who taught me every syllable and worse, at the tender age of twelve."

"I was very young back then. I had no sense of propriety. Besides, you know Joel hates it when you speak that way."

"What Joel doesn't know, won't hurt us."

"Yet here we are now."

She laughed again, but stopped when she realized this wasn't funny at all. He'd been severely thrashed for something entirely  _her_  fault. Remorse resurfaced in a wave. Her eyes burned.

Haji frowned. "What's the matter?"

She couldn't answer. Without meeting his eyes, she starfished her hand across his chest. His skin was warm under the scratchy fabric of bandages. She felt sliding muscle and a corrugation of ribs there, well-defined in a way they'd never been before. Without thought, she stroked lower, across the pale shoal of sternum. Not noticing how he tensed beneath her touch, how his breath quickened in an audible triad to his pulse.

She'd never noticed how white his skin was. The color put her in mind of shadows in fresh snow. The idea of that boorish stableman whipping him back-and-blue put a sour taste in her mouth.

"Do… the wounds hurt a lot?" she whispered.

"Only—when I breathe too hard."

His voice was absent its usual equanimity. Bordering nearly on hoarse. Bemused, she looked up, taking in his flushed cheeks and dilated pupils. His pulse ticced in his throat like a trapped bird.

"You  _are_  breathing too hard."

Haji dropped his eyes, swallowing with an audible click. "Saya—p-perhaps you should go now."

She hesitated , then sulkily relented, sliding off his bed. He probably wanted to sleep off today's ordeal. But she wouldn't let him off so easily. "Don't take too long to recover, do you hear me Haji? I won't forgive you if you're laid up for more than three days."

"Yes, your highness," came the dry reply.

"And once you're better, I'll show you this huge apple tree I found in the grounds. The branches there are perfect for climbing. We'll have a contest to see who can pick the ripest apples on the top. The loser must eat all the ones with worms in them."

"All right." A flash of white teeth, brief and startling. "I hope you like the taste of worms, Saya."

"I doubt it.  _You're_  the one who's going to eat them. Oh, and then we'll get the gunny-sacks and—"

"Saya, I will  _not_  haul dung into the mansion with you."

"Fine. Killjoy." She stuck her tongue out at him, and he rolled his eyes. Both children again; eternal comrades-in-arms. But both sensing a mercurial shift in the temperature of their sunny world. The chilling uncertainties that bloomed with adulthood.

Saya moved to quit the room, then, on impulse, stopped. Turning, she leaned close to Haji, her long soft hair brushing his face.

And she kissed him.

Haji jerked as if struck with a riding crop. His lips were warm and a little chapped, but surprisingly soft on hers. It was a brief peck, almost childlike. But when she drew back, his face was brilliant red. The mirror at the dresser showed her own flushed countenance, a guilty little smile tugging the corners of her lips.

"Thank you. For… looking out for me. I wish I had some way to pay you back for it."

"You—never have to thank me for something like that, Saya," he stammered.

"Why? Because it's your duty? It can't be all there is to it. You looked out for me even when you could've decided not to. Why?"

He averted his eyes. "Why did you cry when you thought I was only with you out of duty at all?"

There was an answer in his question. One, Saya realized as she returned to her room with birch-whips and bandages still weaving through her mind, that she already knew. Falling asleep that night, she wouldn't escape the disquieting sense that, with this incident, the final chapter of her childhood had been written.

And that, on the catalyst of that word,  _duty_ , it was fated to come to a portentous close.


	2. Freddo

**Freddo:**  a cold or unfeeling musical style.

* * *

New York, 1968.

A chilly December evening.

Disembarking the graffiti-splashed 6-train on Lexington at 86th Street, the first thing that hits him is the stench. A bludgeon to the nose, this pulsing miasma of stress, urine and sweat. The subway is chock-full of it; everyone exudes it in dizzying waves.

Haji hides a grimace, hefting his cello case higher along his shoulder. His other hand moves instinctively to guide out his bleak-faced companion.

Saya's fingers barely brush his before withdrawing. Her eyes, shadowed from their sleepless journey, ping across the refrigerator-tiled platform.

Around them, passengers continue to stream out, weighed down by briefcases and portmanteaus. Odd as she and Haji look—a tall pale-faced man in crisp black formal attire, and a waiflike teenage girl in knee-high boots and a travel-worn black coat flapping at her calves—no one glances their way.

Be it London or Paris, the anonymity of subways suits Haji. Reclusive as he is, he finds something appealing about a secret network webbed beneath a city. People milling everywhere on the hour, their blood and heartbeats mingling into a sound and texture as well as a scent.

This is probably why subways appeal to Chiropterans too.

Despite the New York transit authority's "Program for Action" to renew the subways, in the past decade, they've devolved to infernal dens of squalor; sanctums to disrepair, to the homeless, the crack-addled. For Chiropterans, they may as well be playgrounds. A predator can pick an unsuspecting human from the throng, drag him to a corner, drain him, and leave his corpse for authorities to find, long after fleeing the scene.

All this, without once raising his head above ground.

Playground, nothing. It is a candy store.

With a sudden chill, Haji wonders if the recluse in him fancies subways—or the Chiropteran too.

"He's not here," Saya says suddenly.

"What?"

"Our contact. The Red Shield agent supposed to meet us. He's not here."

"Are you sure?" Among droning voices, skirls of music and clattering footsteps, Haji searches for an obsequious suit-clad figure calling his and Saya's names.

No one there.

"Perhaps there has been a delay," he ventures. "They might have met with an emergency, or—"

"No. They didn't send anyone to fetch us because they expect  _us_  to come to  _them_." Saya's voice is cold. In the wan terminus lights, Haji can't help notice how pale her lips are. Bloodless.

She hasn't been feeding properly these few weeks. No insistence on his behalf can convince her to do otherwise. Her hair hangs in two tight braids down her face, framing hollow eyes and cheeks, and her body, under the capacious trenchcoat, is whip-thin. But she still has all her muscle tone. On battlefields, cutting down foes, she moves as if her strength is never in doubt.

Except it is wrath, not sustenance, that fuels her now.

And which Haji fears may get her killed.

He made the mistake, a month ago, of making the opinion known to her. Advising that she should regroup from this endless bloodwork, get some rest. Physical extremism was more weakness than windfall.

Saya's answering punch had splattered blood from his mouth.

 _I don't need you to tell me how to fight this war!_ she spat.  _The only thing I need is for you to do your duty. Nothing more, nothing less. If you can't do that for me, we should go our separate ways right now!_

Stunned, one hand pressed to his bleeding mouth, Haji was unable to answer.

Things between them have been so tense since then. Which is, perhaps, a distortion of hindsight. Hasn't  _everything_  been tense between them since the disaster at the Zoo?

After that terrible Sunday, he watched her morph into a stranger virtually overnight. This woman he travels with still has all of Saya's expressions, her aromas. But something vital inside her seems broken now, twisted out of shape.

With every kill, she sinks deeper into herself, grows more remote. Alertness is consumed by misanthropy; she always watches other people, always looks over her shoulder. At night, guarding her door like a watchdog, Haji knows she rarely sleeps. She's shut off all rudiments, her heart calloused by duty, by the memory of atrocities she'll not discuss. If he ever reaches to touch her hand, or brush the hair from her face, she jerks as if singed, and falters only at his pained look in response.

It chills Haji sometimes, looking at her eyes. As if he's watching a departing visage on one of these subway trains.

Or worse, looking at a mannequin wearing his best friend's face.

Aloud, he asks, "You believe Red Shield refused to send an operative here out of spite?"

"It's not about spite. It's about control."

"Control?"

"They want to put us in our places. Remind us that  _we_  work for  _them_. Not the other way around."

He purses his lips.

She's right. It was the same thing when they separated in London earlier this month. Red Shield had expected them to play sleuths as well as exterminators. The idea that Saya or he might refuse hadn't even _crossed_  their minds.

"These men don't understand anything about the frontline," Saya bites off. "Don't they realize that the more time they waste in mindgames, the more chance Diva has of escaping us again?"

"You could discuss this with the current Joel. I believe he and his team are present in New York."

"There's nothing  _to_  discuss." Saya's tone is bleak as a  _freddo_  note. All her 'negotiations' with Red Shield distort into one ugly clash of wills after another. These men, firmly settled in their plush offices and their preconceived notions of Saya, see her as little more than a tool in the war. What liberation she wrests for herself during one Awakening is promptly snatched away in the next.

Sometimes, Haji wonders if things between Saya and Red Shield will grow so strained that she'll detach from them altogether.

Isn't sure, if she does, that he'll protest.

_She already has enough problems weighing her down._

_She doesn't need them adding more._

"Would you prefer to meet with Red Shield right away?" he asks. "Or should we find a place to rest first? It has been a long journey."

Saya hesitates. Haji takes heart in that simple faltering, as if her human desire for rest indicates that she hasn't sunk into total absence yet.

Until she shakes her head, "We'll meet Red Shield. They had news on where Diva was hiding. Where is their meeting being held?"

"A residence a block away from the Metropolitan Museum. I have the address in my coat."

"Then let's get moving. The sooner this is over with, the sooner we can—" She breaks off, blinking at something ahead.

Haji follows her gaze, wondering if she's spotted a Chiropteran. (With this fetid stench hanging in the air,  _sniffing_  them out is impossible.)

Instead his gaze alights on a rough-looking man slouched at a corner _,_  bits of metal stuck to his face and over his tatty leather jacket.

Catching their eyes, the man rubs his crotch and lasciviously waggles his tongue.

More disturbing, his gaze is on  _Haji_  rather than Saya.

The two companions stare, unnerved. Without a word, they quit the scene.

Clearly, Haji thinks, as he and Saya clump up the stairs of the station entrance, the New York subways aren't, as these Americans put it,  _'All they're cracked up to be.'_

* * *

A brisk walk west and south leads them down busy cross-streets, past the façade of pricey stores lining Madison Avenue, and into a neighborhood where they stop at one of a row of four elegant five-story townhouses.

In the glow of streetlamps, the vicinity is supernaturally quiet. Haji wonders, as he trails after Saya up the marble steps, if there are any residents here at all. Perhaps in New York, as in Victorian London, the wealthy flee upstate during late December to celebrate Christmas in more sedate surroundings.

 _Christmas_.

He glances at Saya with a sharp pang.

At the Zoo, Christmas was Saya's favorite time of the year. For Spoilt Little Birds, it always was. She'd loved it for the presents as much as the food. Liked to pad barefoot into his room at dawn, shake him awake so that they could go downstairs and open the parcels together. Haji still remembers her mischievous smile; still hears her pretty laughter as she prattles about her latest scheme.

He'd give anything to hear that laugh again.

Knocking on the door, they are ushered by a butler past a wood-paneled entrée, and into a warm parlor that bears the subtle aroma of strawberries. Studying the lavish surroundings, from the crystalline chandelier to the plush Asian carpet, Haji surmises that this residence is, if not on the Social Register, then probably nearabout.

Over the mantelpiece, Saya pauses to stare at a framed artwork. Haji realizes it's an imitation—a good one—of the interior panel of Hieronymus Bosch's  _'Garden of Earthly Delights'._ His eyes take in the erotic nudes prancing in the lush gardens of Heaven, and the grotesqueries of flame and torture illustrated in Hell.

Saya, he notices, is staring at the latter as if she can't tear her eyes away.

 _Does she imagine this is where_ we _will go once we've defeated Diva?_

He knows better than to ask.

"Be seated, please," intones the butler. He is one of those Edwardian types, dour, bland-faced, in a neat black suit-uniform and severely cropped hair. He reminds Haji powerfully of the butler who used to attend to them back at the Zoo—and he represses the urge to smirk. "Before you may see Mr. Goldschmidt, I must first trouble you with a request."

"What request?" Saya asks, in her perfect accentless English.

"You must please relinquish all weapons into my possession."

"Weapons?"

"Yes. Only until the meeting is concluded. As a safety precaution."

"We aren't here to attack anyone." Saya is clearly trying to keep her voice neutral. Or, at least, non-threatening.

"Nonetheless, Miss. These are my employer's orders. I cannot allow you to step further into this residence if armed."

Confused, Haji and Saya exchange looks. To them, venturing unarmed into unfamiliar territory is tantamount to parading outdoors in the nude. It is simply not  _done_.

But, after a heartbeat, Saya nods.

The butler, despite his efforts at impassivity, goes wide-eyed when she hands over her tight-sheathed katana, whipping out the knife she keeps in one boot, dislodging the pair of embossed  _shivs_  in the other. Haji is next. By the time he's disclosed his set of sixteen stiletto-daggers, secreted on his belt, the inner-pockets of his coat, in spring-loaded sheaths under both sleeves, and handed over the piano-wire garrote tucked under his collar, as well as two wooden handles meant to be attached onto hooks on either side of the wire, the butler's eyes are the size of hubcaps.

Out of politesse, or perhaps ignorance, he does not ask Haji to remove his belt—another vital weapon. Nor does he stoop to check Saya's or Haji's shoes, whose insides are solid metal, the interiors lined in sheep-fleece for comfort.

A lifestyle of daily combat takes its toll. Even the smallest item becomes a tool of carnage.

Gathering the small arsenal in his arms, the flustered butler trails away, leaving Saya and Haji to wait. Ten minutes later, a door at the corner opens, light spilling into the darkened parlor.

The man holding a hand out to them is little more than a silhouette.

"Saya, Haji. We've been expecting you."

* * *

He looks nothing like  _their_  Joel.

This Joel is burly and pot-bellied, with a craggy reddish face and a thick drooping moustache meant to call attention away from a rather shapeless chin. The room he ushers them into resembles the library of a gentlemen's club—capacious armchairs, a vast sweeping oak table, volumes of books stored on gleaming shelves.

Present in the room are seven or eight men, ranging from mid-forties to early seventies. All immaculately dressed, with a hungry intensity in their eyes. Descendants of Red Shield's original founders, the fiery ideals of their forefathers cooled to calculating ice.

Joel introduces them, and although Haji shelves their names away for future use, he's equally sure Saya makes no effort to remember any of them.

Joel seats Saya at one end of the table, and takes his place at the other, face to face. The men on either side of the table fix her with gimlet gazes. Standing beside her, Haji feels as if he's facing a continuum of daggers.

He wonders if the seating pattern is deliberate—to intimidate the guest as much as possible.

But Saya doesn't look intimidated. She sits straight-backed in her seat, bringing with her into the stuffy room the cold stillness of the outside air.

"You're late," Joel says without preamble. "You were ordered to arrive sooner."

"Then you should have sent an operative to receive us at the station," Saya says flatly.

Joel waves an unapologetic hand. "We were shortstaffed at the time. Surely it makes no difference. You reached here fine on your own—so it obviously wasn't a bother."

"No," Saya agrees, toneless. "Obviously."

A dark-haired young man—the youngest in the room, discounting Saya and Haji in terms of appearance—speaks up politely. "I understand you were in London recently. Keeping a lid on the Chiropteran situation there?"

"We were. Then we received your word about Diva's presence in New York. That's why we're here."

"And it is extremely fortuitous that you are," a gnomelike man at the corner cuts in. "You will fulfill your duty by decontaminating the Chiropteran hordes that have sprung up in the city."

Saya's eyes narrow. "I thought we were summoned here to kill Diva."

Joel nods. "Our lookouts are narrowing out her location as we speak. In the meantime your services are needed elsewhere."

"But your message stated that you  _found_  her location."

"We had, at the time. But complications arose."

Which, to Haji, sounds rather like,  _'We wrote what we had to, in order to get you here.'_

His brow lifts, imperceptible. Beside him, Saya stiffens. "What complications?"

Joel's reply is oblique. "As I said earlier, we're shortstaffed. A majority of our members have been assigned to Vietnam. They're helping American soldiers combat a sudden rash of Chiropteran attacks in Saigon. In exchange for our services, the US government has allowed us to roost in New York. If all goes well, Red Shield could form an alliance with the United States. It would be beneficial for our organization, in terms of manpower and resource."

A beak-nosed man at the left takes up the tale. "Unfortunately, the situation in New York is equally dire. Chiropteran-related killings have skyrocketed since last month. New victims are discovered every day, their bodies drained of blood. Corpses found in alleyways; entire families slaughtered nightly."

"This could simply be the work of local criminals," Haji intrudes quietly. "As I understand, there are at least three murders, if not more, reported daily in this city."

The small man in the corner shakes his head. "These are Chiropteran killings. We have enough eyewitnesses to confirm that. And it is imperative to stop them. If the US government discovers that our subjects are roaming their streets—"

" _Our_  'subjects'?" Saya frowns. "What do you mean?"

A thunderous silence. The men exchange looks, perturbed.

Joel clears his throat, "These Chiropterans… escaped from a lab that the US allowed Red Shield to establish here. There were sixteen creatures in all. They killed the scientists at the facility, and fled into the city. We keep sending teams to retrieve them. But all we get back are corpses. Which is why we expect you to—"

Saya puts two and two together fast. "Wait. You only called me here to clean up this mess before the US government discovers it. Because if they do, they'll blame  _you_  for the victims' deaths. And cut off ties with you."

Joel's lips flatten. "Remember this, Saya. It is your  _duty_  as Red Shield's main weapon to eliminate the Chiropteran threat—"

"I was doing that already in London, before you summoned me to handle a problem under _your_ jurisdiction _._ "

"If you don't eliminate these Chiropterans on time, it  _will_  damage our ties with the US. Putting a greater impediment on our chance to locate Diva!"

The anger that is never too far from Saya's surface flares up. "So you haven't even  _found_  her yet!"

"Found her yet or not, refusing to hunt these Chiropterans is not  _your_  choice to make! You work for us, and are bound by your duty—"

Saya shoots so abruptly to her feet half the men at the table jerk back. Her face is frigid with disgust. "Don't speak to me about  _duty_  when you can't even fulfill your  _own._  These Chiropterans escaped from _your_  labs. Under  _your_  charge. And while you're sending me to hunt them down, god knows  _what_  Diva and her Chevaliers might be upto!"

Joel's face reddens. "If you do not find these Chiropterans, we will be unable to locate Diva  _at all_. Think in terms of  _business_ , not—"

"Locating Diva  _is_  my business. And the reason Red Shield exists at all. Or, in your faithless distortion of the word  _duty_ , have you forgotten that?"

Incited by her raw fury, Joel allows his own blunt audacity to confront her. "Red Shield is not a toy subject to your whims, Saya! Only trained dogs are  _faithful_. Remember, you are a weapon in this war. Nothing more. You will do as  _ordered_. To keep our organization strong, we must swim with the current. Our forefathers would have understood that, even if  _you_  cannot!"

"Understood what? That their sons are hypocrites who ignore the mission in favor of personal politics?"

Now Joel rises to his full height, his small bright eyes fierce. " _Don't_  presume to dictate to us, Saya. Remember  _what_  you are—and remember your  _place_!"

Saya's eyes flash, and Haji feels his own narrow. He almost wants to tell Joel to shut his mouth. But Saya raises a detaining hand as if sensing the nature of his words. He feels the potent anger buzzing off her frame.

Without a word, she shoves her chair aside and strides out of the room.

Joel blinks. "Where the devil are you going?"

"To find a place to stay for tonight," Saya says coldly. "It's a little  _stuffy_  in here."

She sweeps past the door, Haji trailing silently after. At the doorjamb, he spares a final glance at the men.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

And shuts the door on their scandalized faces.

But, following Saya out, he knows she'll have to hunt these Chiropterans as ordered. What choice does she have? Red Shield knows that too. That's why none of them are stopping her from leaving.

She is their only weapon in the war—and they'll use that excuse to make her jump through hoops for them for a penny and a promise.

Again. Again. And again.

Repassing Bosch's painting on their way to reclaim their confiscated weapons, Haji glances again at the artist's depiction of Hell. It occurs to him, that Saya wasn't studying it because this is where she imagined her mission would end.

She was studying it because, in many ways, she is already there.

* * *

 


	3. Dolcissimo

**CW: Bloodshed and gore. General uncomfortable elements of mental illness.**

 

 

* * *

 **dolcissimo** : to play in a sweet manner.

* * *

Her world is a colorful web of fairytales and tarot cards. Rife with rhymes and riddles, filled with secret meanings.

There are Sun and Stars, Towers and Hanged-men. Lions and Snakes and beautiful impossible Death. There are patterns of Twos and Sixes and Tens. Each number holds a special meaning, because numbers are dates and dates are time.

And time flows all around her, omnipresent but never touching her.

She sits enthroned above its current, a crowned Queen of Pentacles. Pentacles, because there are five points on a star, just as there are five Chevaliers in Diva's orbit. Her deck of loyal Knights.

James; her Tin Soldier, spotless uniform and stalwart heart. Karl, her Big Bad Wolf; armed in dagger-teeth and doomed to disembowelment. Nathan, her Sherezade; an irreplaceable enigma of tales and wit. Solomon, her Gingerbread Man; tantalizingly elusive, delicious with every bite. Amshel, her Giant; poised atop the beanstalk, counting his golden eggs.

Each one lives to serve her. Chained by blood and enchantment. They bestow her with gifts of dresses and blood, dolls and sex. She is the Sun of their orbit, the heart of each fairytale. Flawless Snow Queen, melodious Mermaid, sooty Cinderella and tower-locked Rapunzel, all melded into one.

And they—her saviors and ravishers, depending on her whim.

They fill her world with color and music. Stop the sonatas in her head from swirling into chaos.

But even knights have their failings. That's why they're knights, and not  _kings_ , you see.

Kings have no missing spaces. No empty plates of eyes that beg for slices of exclusive devotion or pine for kindness and love and a thousand other things Diva can give no name to because she's never received any herself.

Her Chevaliers whisper them to her all the time. When their lips move, and when they don't. Their faces are like howling mouths and empty stomachs. Always— _always_ —begging to be filled.

But Diva can't fill them. How can you fill an empty space, if you are an empty space yourself?

When Diva finds her King, she's sure this evil spell will break. Witches will be burned; dragons vanquished; and the poisoned apple of her womb will sweeten into bloom.

And when she'll finally hold her babies, fruit of her flesh, in her arms, all her empty spaces will fade forever.

And they'll all live, as people in fairytales do, Happily Ever After.

Except she can't do that. Because she hasn't yet found her King. Instead she has parades of Fools to choose from. Men of no consequence. No solidity. Their names and words mean nothing to her. Their bones pulp like rosepetals in her grip.

This latest one, for example. The doomed man who entered as a lover, and now lies as butchered leftovers. His blood tastes like the goodies in Red Riding Hood's basket. The card of Temperance stamps his dead features.

Diva's never cared for that word. To her, Temperance is the same as denial—and this human suffered brutally for denying  _her_. She gets what she wants when she wants it.

She is a Queen, and queens must be obeyed.

The orchestra of stars in the sky, and the spiders and spindles in her head, say so.

Lying in the blood-drenched clawfoot tub, Diva thinks of these things. Of tarot cards and fairytales, spindles and blood. The human man Amshel sent up to 'attend to' her lies by the foot of the tub, a floppy bloodless tangle of arms and legs. Three fingers of one hand are missing.

His dead eyes are still open, staring at her.

Diva lobs a bloodied sponge at him.

_Show some manners._

The bathroom, once a pristine landscape of white tile and shining mirrors, is splattered red. Amshel will be very sad. He presented this human in hopes that she would mate with him. But to Diva, the word _mating_  is synonymous with  _supper_.

And she does  _not_  approve of insolent humans who finish their suppers before  _she_.

"Diva?"

The singsong voice perks her ears like a kitten's.

"Diva darling? Is everything all right in there? I thought I heard— _oh_."

Nathan, her sunniest knight, pokes his curly mane into the room.

Of course,  _knight_  isn't all Nathan is for her. Knights are not their Queen's secret-keepers. Nor do they make Queens their secret-keepers in turn.

Nathan is her also Magician, her Chariot. He shows her things full of thrill and illusion, takes her places with nothing but flying-carpets of words. Spinning forgotten tales in her ear like hay into gold, his Rumplestiltskin eyes dancing as she tries to guess what names he used to have before taking on the guise of her Chevalier.

She knows he isn't her real Chevalier. Not by blood, anyway. A mommy can tell.

But she'll never betray him by telling Amshel or the others. His smile is the closest to warmth she has tasted. His blood, when she bites into the robin's egg blue vein at his throat, resonates of  _sorrow_  and _home_.

Two things Diva has known all her life, searched for all her life, until they've merged so impossibly that when she thinks of either one, she can never laugh without also weeping.

In fairytales, a Queen's tears are magical. And with magic, wishes are granted.

But Diva still hasn't gotten  _hers_. Perhaps she's cried so much that all the magic bled out of her.

She wonders if her  _Sister Saya_  has any left.

"Diva." Tittering, Nathan skips into the blood-smeared bathroom. "My precious, what a  _mess_  you've made. It's almost  _artistic_ , honestly—but I doubt Rockefeller Plaza's staff will agree."

Diva aims a dainty toe at the human corpse. "It's  _his_  fault, Nathan."

"Oh? Did he displease you?"

"He wouldn't play any game I wanted to."

" _Really_? Oh how completely obnoxious." Even as he speaks, Nathan coaxes her from the bathtub. Red rivulets stream down her skin, the ends of her hair limp and damp. There's a large glassed-in showerstall at the corner. He lures her there with dulcet tones and touch, her feet leaving red smears on the tiles. Turns the water up  _hot_ , just as she likes, and stands behind her under the spray of needles.

Diva giggles as the water drenches them, plastering Nathan's hair to his face. His open-collared silk-paisley shirt and tight pants are instantly soaked. James would grimace and Solomon might make a disapproving moue, but Nathan won't.

He likes to get messy, to play dress up, as much as Diva.

Sometimes she thinks he's playing dress-up even when he's not wearing a stitch.

"Was that human really so awful, my dearest?"

"I didn't enjoy anything he did. And he didn't even  _notice_."

"Mm. Some men are funny that way, Diva. They think if they enjoyed it, you must have too." Nathan kisses the moist top of her head, reaching for soap and a scrub brush. "Of course, most women—and  _men_ —remedy this problem when they find a playmate who enjoys the  _exact_  same things they do."

"Was it like that with you two?"

"With me and who?"

"You and… her."

Nathan pauses.

 _Her_.

That secret name she and Nathan share. The one they never-never say out loud, because  _sssh_. Even walls have ears.

Diva can't say the word  _mother_ , because she's never known the care of one. But she understands the word  _memories_ , and how they fuse into the mind as surely as the moon to the sky.

Nathan's blood tastes like memories of Diva's mother.

That is why Diva feeds from him the most.

"Hm. You know, in several ways, it really was." Nathan sounds uncharacteristically pensive. But then, just as characteristically, his mood shifts. "But  _honestly_. What are we going to do about all these  _drecks_ Amshel keeps offering you. On a scale of one to ten, that one would barely make my  _list_. And from the looks of him, I'd say he was strung out on something."

"Amshel found him in a place called a 'meatpacking district'."

A fond snigger. "Not  _a_  meatpacking district, precious.  _The_  Meatpacking District. One of these days, Solomon and I will give you a grand tour there. You'll  _love_  it."

"Don't bother. It sounds like some boring factory where they pack beef."

"Well, if  _factory_  is a byword for  _hot and cold running hunks_ , then sure." He casts a disdainful look at the dead human. " _That_  one though, I'll make exceptions for. I hope Amshel at least examined him before sending him to you. Otherwise his choice is more likely to give you _crabs_  than  _babies_."

"Babies." Diva spiders one hand across her belly. She can feel the emptiness there, impotent as a scream. Grief pricks, and in a sudden breath, she's  _livid_. "Why can't I have babies. Nathan? Why can't you or the others give them to me? Why can't these humans?"

Her rage crackles in the steamy showerstall. Nathan, familiar with her bursts of violence, soothes it by moving the scrub brush caressingly down her back. "Now, now, darling. You know why. We haven't managed to secure the right groom for you."

"Groom." Her anger melts, and she breaks into a sunrise smile. "A king for a queen."

"That's right."

"Saya's Chevalier. That quiet one. He's my groom, isn't he?"

"Yes. Haji can give you babies, once we capture him."

"Except Haji isn't a king. He's the Ace that Sister Saya hides up her sleeve. Right next to her heart. She'll never let him out of her sight."

Nathan tips her head toward the water-stream, soapy fingers combing her hair. "We all want to protect what's most important to us, Diva."

"But maybe Haji isn't the right groom for me. Maybe—" And the thought is so ticklish she giggles. "Maybe I should choose a Page instead."

"A Page? You mean a little boy?" Nathan's lip curls into a smirk. "Well, they'd certainly be easier to train, I'll grant that."

"If I had a Page for my groom, I'd make him mine forever. No one else would ever have him." Sighing, she leans back against Nathan's chest, lets his fingers work their magic along her scalp, a cluster of _dolcissimo_  notes. Her thoughts are as swirly and red-tinted as the water splashing around them.

Then—

"Sister Saya is here. In this city."

"Really?" Nathan sounds startled, but not by her words. "Astute of you to notice so fast. I didn't expect you to feel her presence yet."

She pouts, both imperious and endearing. "I can  _always_  feel it, Nathan." She taps her temple, then skims her finger down to the center of her chest. "Every time she's near, I can hear a little hum inside. It sounds like my song."

"Well, if  _that's_ true, it won't be long before the others feel her too." A delighted chuckle. "Oh, I can't  _wait_  to see how the reunion will play out. Will your lovely sister finally succeed in chopping the wicked giant's beanstalk down? Perhaps she will. I bet she has a sharper axe this time around. What's the wicked giant going to do then?"

Nathan's voice is as bright and glittering as pyrite. And, like pyrite, not to be trusted.

Diva smiles.

Opening her hand, she releases the mangled fingers she'd wrenched earlier off her human prey. The appendages hit the tiles with wet  _splats_ , a bloody rain of asparagus.

"Crash," Diva whispers.

* * *

 


	4. Caesura Part I

**CW: Violence/Gore/Suicidal Content**

* * *

**Caesura** (Latin form): break, stop.

* * *

_La petite mort._

The little death.

Since she was young, the French metaphor had fascinated her. In the narrowest sense, it alluded to a sexual climax. A shattering loss of muscle and breath; an expulsion of vital life-force.

But beyond that, it held a thousand meanings.

A  _petite mort_  was anything that extinguished you inside. A word, a glance, an action.

A life.

Sometimes, Saya wondered if her curiosity of the phrase stemmed from how she'd visualized Death as a child.

In her mind, death was a monstrous black wave, embossed into the shape of a grinning skull. It washed over you in a crest, fangs opening wide, swallowing you down. In its maw, you would thrash, choking and struggling, until the cold began to numb you. And then, bit-by-bit, stupefied into paralysis, you would sink into its depths.

Never to return.

Saya wasn't sure where she'd developed this peculiar picture. Her imagination, always flighty, was made all the flightier by a featherbedded upbringing and the finest education fuelled by money and sensationalized by isolation.

But in this case, the first wings of macabre fancy had sprouted from a play she'd once read to child-Haji— _Hamlet_. Something about how it had described Death as a step-by-step immersion into despair; a gradual necrosis of passion _._

And, long after time and trauma scoured the details, a residuum of the theme still lingered in her memory…

* * *

That was what her duty felt like, year after year. A watery chain of little deaths. Each one swallowing a large chunk of her natural vitality.

Leaving emptiness behind.

_… Her clothes spread wide and mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up, which time she chanted snatches of old lauds, as one incapable of her own distress…_

She remembered those words as she drove her katana into a man's ribcage.

Fingers tense on the slippery handle, hot blood splattering her face. She felt the friction of tearing muscle, the jarring  _scrape_  of steel on bone. Her blade pierced the heart in a visceral bull's-eye.

Catalyzing a  _devastating_ internal explosion.

The man's eyes bulged, mouth distorting on a  _scream_. Saya's blood flooded his system, a fusion more intimate than sex. He thrashed under her in delirious death-throes. Heart and muscles fluttering. Resisting the toxic invasion of her sword.

Then, pulse-by-pulse, the spasms began to slacken. The body started to lose its frantic resistance. It welcomed the overpowering sensations—a wave of profound sleep.

She watched the man's eyes roll back in his head. Watched the tiny palpitations across his face, his throat, until they faded. His blood seeped out in a turbid red circle. A final expulsion of heat and life. Followed by serene stillness.

The man exhaled once, as if to laugh.

Watching him, a whirlwind of matching deaths spiraled behind her eyes—fatal Charybdis mapped out in the brackish flow of her duty.

She remembered a little girl she'd once snatched away from a Chiropteran's claws, along a coastal village unmarked by time. Remembered how her blood spewed everywhere like strawberry syrup. How the Chiropteran had asphyxiated as Saya had thrust her sword into its throat.

The girl had died with her eyes open, to the lightshow of sparkling red crystals. Humming in delirium about  _sea-waves_ and  _skeletons,_  until words and blood seeped out of her.

Her lips had twitched once, as if to smile…

She remembered a seaman she had wrenched from a Chiropteran's bloody jaws, on a sea-slicked quay near the tropics. Remembered how the creature had writhed as she'd slashed through its extremities. How its blood had colored the night in a red supernova.

The seaman had floated in a crumpled mass by the shore, watching. Soporific mind blending truth to fiction, until, with his last breath, he'd stuttered about  _devil eyes_  and  _skullbones._

He had shuddered once, as if to chuckle…

She remembered… so many deaths. Each one flooding her with the perverse sensation of having just lost something precious. Something she would never regain.

But none were quite like this.

Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, a disorienting staccato strobe. Illuminating, in colorful flashes, the bloodstained walls around her. Bodies were slumped everywhere. Arms splayed out extravagantly, legs bent at misshapen angles, as if crystallized in lethargic somersaults.

An entire unit of Red Shield operatives, butchered at her hand.

All of them had been infected—through food supplies, water—with that noxious cocktail Amshel had devised from Diva's blood.

And all of them had transformed—slowly, hideously—into monsters.

They were once her comrades. Her  _friends_. She had never wanted them to die.

But Red Shield's orders were clear.

_All Chiropterans must be exterminated._

_It is your duty._

Except it wasn't duty she had thought of, each time she swung her blade. She hadn't even thought about Diva or Amshel, really. Their deaths, when she would be allowed to dispense them, were justified by their past crimes. But these people's deaths  _were not._

Their only crimes were their ties to  _her_.

And in killing them, she wondered how many other lives, of spouses, children, lovers, she had despoiled.

The remorse gnawed at the edges of her vision. Supplanted by the screams and faces of all her victims. And with each sword-slash, she felt something inside her constricting.

Suffocating to death.

_La petite mort._

Her final victim, fully-transformed into a Chiropteran, charged in a chiaroscuro blur of brilliant fangs. The face, deformed to phenomenally demonic proportions, filling her vision in a Death's Head.

She could almost see the outline of gaunt skull. The hollow sockets of eyes. The lips stretched in an obscene smile.

Beckoning to her.

The image, either a shadow-warp or a hallucination, was hypnotic. She remembered gazing at it, spellbound. Remembered it swooping closer, closer—until, in a lethal red flare-up, she was swept off her feet, sword clattering away with a metallic  _ring_.

Stars erupted behind her eyes, body plunged in sudden weightlessness. The world freezing—a heartstopping  _caesura_.

She slid as if into Death's gulping throat, losing all conception of her surroundings. Unaware of how she collided with blood-slippery tiles. Of how the Chiropteran pinned her with its bruising weight. Eyes glowing an extrasensory red, ropes of saliva dripping from its bared fangs.

Ready to devour her.

Eyes shut, she melted with perverse anticipation. Craving release.

Until—

" _Saya_!"

The cry was a red-hot starling.

With monumental effort, she shifted muscles too weary to feel, opened eyes too weary to see.

And watched Haji decapitate the Chiropteran in a vicious sweep.

It was eyeblink-fast. One second the creature's slavering head loomed above her. The next, in a massive red fountain, it was gone. And then the red was spurting out and up, fanning, radiating. Hot and thick and  _endless_. But she couldn't feel it drenching her face and clothes. Couldn't feel the Chiropteran's weight slumping off her, granting oxygen and circulation back to her compressed body.

Her mind was still sunk in that disembodied limbo—a watery seiche between life and death. Haji, so far away, even as he pulled her upright. Exuding a tangible relief she could not make herself feel, even if she wanted to.

A bubble of emotion had usurped all her thoughts. Pushing past all duty, overwhelming all logic, erupting to wash her in…

What was it? Shock?

No.

 _Regret_.

She shut her eyes.

_Oh god._

She was sorry that Haji saved her from the Chiropteran. Sorry that he snatched away her one chance to be free.

Because existence, from this point forward, was absolutely insupportable.

_…But long it could not be till that her garments, heavy with their drink, pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay, and to muddy death._

* * *

"Saya—how could you do something so reckless?"

"Leave me alone."

"You made no move to defend yourself. You let that Chiropteran  _plough_ you down. Why—"

"It  _wasn't_  your concern."

"You could have  _died_."

"One less duty for you to carry out later."

" _Saya_ —" Agony dopplered into his voice.

But she didn't look at him.

A fluctuant low-watt lampshade illuminated their rented room. The walls were yellowed with seepage, two saggy beds faced by a lit TV. Blue light from the screen cast guttering shadows everywhere, the low volume blending with the ambient  _hmmm_  of a corner heater.

All these rooms she and Haji coasted through; an endless line of boxcars on some train-journey to Perdition. She wondered how long it would last. Night upon night of battle, a brief rest at some faceless hotel, and then off at dawn for more relentless travel. Subtle variations, but the same excruciating theme, with nothing to look forward to. Nothing to live on for.

It was little wonder she wanted that Chiropteran to kill her.

A flesh-and-blood barter of lifelong little deaths for the final one.

" _La petite mort_ ," she said aloud. "Why do you think they call it that?"

"What?"

" _La petite mort_. The little death. You know what it means, don't you? Why would people use that phrase for something that supposedly makes them feel so alive?"

"Saya—" Haji's shock colored the air.

Lying with her back to him, she couldn't see his expression. But she knew what he must be thinking. That she had lost her mind. That these questions were not what any well-bred lady ought to put forth.

Except Saya had abandoned all such lofty idealism the day she set Diva free.

Why play-act a role that was never meant for her?

Half-turning, she offered Haji a cold look. "What? Didn't you hear me?"

"N-No. It is just—" His mouth opened and closed like a drowner's. The rest of him frozen, arrested. "This is not—"

"What? It's not  _proper_? Not suited for  _drawing-room use_?" She let off a hiss of air, too sibilant to be a laugh. "So is everything else in our lives. We're not the same people we were back then, Haji. The sooner you stop pretending, the better."

The words sliced him, jagged  _shivs_. She saw the bloodless wounds they etched in his gaze.

"Why do they call it  _the little death_? Have you ever wondered?"

He didn't answer.

"Sometimes, when I kill the Chiropterans, when they're still in human form… I see something happen to them. Especially if I hit their throats. When the last blow is struck, it seems to  _excite_ them. It makes them…" She trailed off, as if silence could paint a more vivid picture of those grotesque images she and Haji had witnessed during battles. To that involuntary priapism that occurred in her victims at the moment of death.

Haji averted his face, as if tactfully sidestepping a filthy route mapped in patois. "It is called  _angel lust_ , Saya. It is just a sudden rush of blood from the spine to the groin. It is purely unrelated to the... metaphor you're referring to."

"Then why do they call it a  _little death_?"

"Saya—please—"

"What? You don't know? It's not as though you've never experienced it by yourself."

He recoiled visibly. "Saya—" It was enunciated with the tight primness of  _Mademoiselle_. "—If you are going to bait me in this vulgar fashion—"

"I'm not baiting you. Don't turn your face away like that.  _Tell_  me. Why do they use that term?"

He faltered. All immaculate poise dissolved; he just looked like a tall boy flooded with mortification. Quiet, resistant, he said, "I believe—they use it because you give a little part of yourself away. You expel a small fraction of life-force … in order to create another body and spirit."

"And when it is over, you feel… peaceful?"

"No—that isn't—" he seemed to be coalescing the proper words across his tongue. "—Not a-a peace. More of a solace. A brief moment when there is no present or future. Like a—"

"—A literal millisecond of death." She paused, considering. "Maybe that explains it."

"Explains what?"

"Each time I kill, it's like I die a little inside myself. Except instead of expelling my life-force to create another life, all I do is create another death."

Haji's expression shifted, resolved. Tension bleeding into gentleness. "Saya—you should not think that way. I—I know how difficult this war is for you. But think of all the lives you save each night. Think of—"

" _Don't you think I_ know _that_?" The words reverberated harshly off the walls, striking sharp and ugly back at her ears. Squeezing her eyes shut, she turned away. "I  _try_ , Haji. I  _try_  telling myself that there's some good to this war. That I'm sparing other lives by destroying the Chiropterans. But I don't  _know_  any of those people. I doubt I'd even care for them. But  _they're_  the ones still alive, and all our comrades... are gone."

She heard Haji exhale. Regret was a tangible weight in his tone. "It is what Joel used to call  _realpolitik_ , Saya. Sacrifices have to be made to ensure the greater good. To fulfill one's duty."

"Duty…"

That word which acted as a bloodstained padlock in the Bastille of this mission.

Which had driven her, tonight, to slaughter dozens of people who were once her friends.

"It is why our comrades let themselves die at your hand, Saya. It was not murder. It was a mercy kill."

She wanted to think of it that way. Except it seemed too simplistic, too abstract. As if giving the act a sanctimonious title would allow her to escape what she'd done.

She could never escape though. That was the torment of it.

"It doesn't matter  _what_ you call it, Haji. So many people were butchered tonight because of me. Nothing will bring them back."

"Saya, if those people had lived, they would have become  _monsters_. And slaughtered countless others. At least by dying at your hand, they would be free of that burden."

"And free of their duty too." She opened her burning eyes. Remembering the peaceful sighs of each victim. The euphoria swirling in their gazes. "That must be why they were so eager to die. To escape this war.  _The little death_. Except in their case, it was the final one." A green tinge of envy leaked into her voice.

She could feel Haji watching her cautiously. "You sound—almost as though you resent them for leaving you."

"I resent them for finding peace when I have none."

For being freed from this duty while she was still shackled to it.

"Saya, things may seem hopeless to you right now. But with time—"

" _They'll only get_   _worse_!" The words were sharp, ripped out like teeth. "This mission is killing me more a little each day. And not just me.  _You_  too. Don't pretend that it's not. At this rate—" Her lip quivered. "—At this rate, when you finally have to keep your promise, there'll be nothing left of either of us. We'll be dead already."

"Let us hope it does not come to that, Saya."

"To the promise? Or our deaths?"

"It is the same thing, where I am concerned."

The decibels in his answer jolted her. Filled with a gravity that called to mind every screaming death she'd ever witnessed. Every kamikaze battle fought for no reason but the knowledge that nothing, short of the grave and its inevitability, was ever truly yours.

Mouth opening and closing, Saya turned. "Wh-what?"

Haji didn't reply. His eyes were fixed on the runneled wallpaper. She could tell by the tautness in his shoulders that he'd made a mistake he was quickly regretting.

"Haji—what are you—"

"Never mind, Saya. You are upset enough. In your frame of mind, it would only—"

Head buzzing, she sprang to her feet. "Only  _what_? Only make me hear things that aren't there? Don't give me that! If you're trying to tell me you'll  _kill yourself_ once this mission ends—"

His mouth, despite its generous width, always seemed flat to her unless he was smiling. She watched it flatten further. "What difference would it make if I were?"

On instinct, she swung out—a hot clapping blow to the jaw. The impact surged all the way through her arm; a fiery rush of synapses. Haji reeled back—away from a second whistling punch, and then further back—away from her wildly wagging finger, and the half-suffocated fury pouring in a literal  _scream_  out her throat.

" _Don't_ say _these things_   _to me_!  _I will not let you do this_!  _I_  will not  _let you_  manipulate  _me into_ —"

"Manipulate?" His face was near the point of begging. Blood streaked his upper-lip. "Saya, that is the  _last_  thing I am trying to do. But facts are facts. Once you go, what will I have left to—"

" _No_!  _Don't you see_? This is why I asked  _you_  to keep this promise at all! To make sure that you're still alive once this war ends! That way, at least I can die with some peace, knowing  _you'll_  survive!"

"What peace would there be for me in taking your life, Saya? How would you expect me to live on with that regret?"

The agony in his voice was palpable. Sensing that he had revealed too much, he jerked his gaze away. Stripped of all calm; stripped even of that laconic smokescreen that was his testudo as surely as hers was her sword.

And, just like at that rainy evening at the Zoo, it dissolved her anger into remorse.

She stared at her hands. The knuckles felt sore where they'd stuck his face so hard. Misgiving took root. She wanted to apologize—not just for hitting him, but for turning him into a Chevalier. For freeing Diva from her tower, and each miserable millisecond that had followed. But if she started, she would never be able to stop, and it would change nothing.

Anyway, she knew that it wasn't what Haji wanted. His only wish—unswerving—was for her to live on. Just as she knew that he was sinking into despair, perhaps as deeply as she, with the knowledge that she could not. Disconsolate with it.

So unlike the Haji she once knew—her pragmatic, positive childhood friend.

This war had damaged him as profoundly as it had warped her.

Tight, strained, without the courage to meet his eyes, she whispered, "You wouldn't be killing me by keeping your promise, Haji. It would be what I did for our comrades tonight. A mercy kill."

"And you said that it made you die a little inside. How can you presume it won't be the same for me?"

She couldn't answer. Fatigue suffused her whole body, leaving her too desiccated for deeper sadness; too numb for sharper fury. Haji was half-turned away, not looking at her or touching her. But she knew what that meant. He was  _steeped_ in those feelings.

But she: anything but.

"Because you're stronger than I am," she said flatly. "That's why, when the time comes, I want you to do it. No one else is as steady as you are. They might weaken or dissemble—but not you. In the end, you always do what you have to. "

"Saya—"

"Please, Haji. You're the only one who can carry this out for me. I trust you. So swear that you  _will_. And that—you won't throw your life away afterward."

Haji exhaled, as if aspirating the force of his rejection. His grief was a dull-hued gray aura, matched by the tone of his voice. "That is one promise I cannot trust myself to keep, Saya. If I did, it would mean living without purpose. And that would just—"

"Kill you inside?" She was vaguely surprised by how hollow they both sounded. Opiated as if from their incarceration in the war. "That sort of makes us the same, doesn't it? Both forced to endure a duty that's slowly tearing us apart."

"I am not in this battle out of duty, Saya. Nor does it tear me apart to fight alongside you. It is just…" She heard him swallow. In a different voice, almost a whisper, he said, "It is just this promise that is so hard to abide to."

His little death, the same way this war was hers.

Saya shut her eyes. Suddenly she had no desire to continue this meandering conversation. What was the point? They were both doomed. Manacled in this sadomasochistic waltz, like two twins from some epic Greek tragedy. Each devouring the other, a little more each day, until there was nothing left.

She wondered how many more little deaths this duty would force them to endure, before the ultimate one.

* * *

 


	5. Con Fuoco

 

* * *

 **Con fuoco** : with fire

* * *

Even this late at night, the storefronts across Fifth Avenue are lit up for Christmas shopping.

Snow mists the air, crusting the moving mass of coats and hats around Haji and Saya. People bustle in and out of the brilliant stores, some in jackets not quite up to the wind; others richly bundled up to the nines.

The cold gets to Haji in a way that is both nostalgic and unwelcome. Memories swirl; of Saya and he flinging snowballs at each other at the Zoo. Of laughing before fireplaces with mugs of hot chocolate.

Comfort. Warmth. A far cry from the cold and starvation that steeped his early childhood.

Memories of that childhood too; of dancing for coins on icy streets, shirt lined with yellowed newspaper because his family couldn't afford to buy him woolen underclothes. Of tapping frayed shoe-soles to the tempo of drums, heart pounding in his ears.

Singing a sick melody of hope.

Haji still hears that melody every single night; a cadenza played  _con fuoco_. It sounds eerily like Diva's song. Life and death flowing hand-in-hand _._

Like the look in Saya's eyes.

She stands by the sidewalk, watching him hail a solitary cab crawling up the street. Under the long trenchcoat, her body seems gaunt enough to dissipate into the air. Held down only by her ponderous thoughts.

Haji wonders what she's thinking about. Wonders when she'll start eating.

Wonders why she no longer meets his gaze.

Does she think he hasn't noticed? What exactly does she see when she looks in his eyes, that makes her immediately look away?

It is something—among the many things—he cannot ask.

" _Saya—Haji_!"

No sooner does the cab screech before them, does someone shout their names. Turning, Haji sees the dark-haired young man from the boardroom running in their direction.

"Saya—Haji—wait!" He stops when he's abreast of them, leaning over with his hands on his knees, panting. "Please—hold on. I want to talk to you."

Saya scowls. "Were you following us?"

"Yes. I ran out as soon as the others were occupied. Chased you up the street." Still gasping, he glances at Haji with a half-smile. "You walk  _fast_. Like you're running in a marathon. Good thing that cello-case of yours makes you easy to spot."

Saya snaps, "What do you want?"

"Nothing. Except to talk to you. Preferably in a less… hostile environment." Straightening, he runs a hand through his hatless hair, which is short and thick, neatly-combed. His brown suit and vest are well-cut, the pants perfectly pressed. Haji judges him to be in his mid-twenties; his accent is distinctly upper class, refined.

"I know you had reason to be upset at the meeting," the young man says. "The board's not being entirely sincere. But even so, I don't want you leaving on such a sour note."

Saya's eyes narrow. "If you're trying to wheedle us back with more lies—"

" _Nonono_! I assure you, I came here on my own. I'm not acting on behalf of my father or his… _cronies_."

"Father—?"

"That's right." Smiling, he extends a hand. "My name is Niklas. I'm son to the current Joel."

"His son?" Saya studies him with piercing directness. "But you look nothing like him."

Niklas nods, voice lowering confidentially. "Perhaps  _step_ father would be the better term to use—although he always screeches at me to avoid it. My dearly-departed mother married him after the death of my real father—his brother. He used to be my uncle."

"I see." Saya still hasn't moved to take his hand.

"It's not something the family advertises. But since my mother's passed away, it's not a secret anymore, either. And if you'll forgive my boldness, I feel free to share such information with you. You are a Goldschmidt too. And custodian of the family's darkest secret."

"Secret?"

"Of Diva. And the Chiropterans." His tone softens. "All the mistakes the first Joel made, whose repercussions  _you_  are forced to shoulder now."

Saya doesn't bat an eyelid. "I don't need your commiseration."

"I'm not offering it, Saya. Just a request to talk. But please. Let's not stand in the middle of the street like stray dogs. There must be somewhere we can sit down and discuss things?"

Saya doesn't answer. Beside them, a group of chattering shoppers piles noisily into what should have been hers and Haji's cab ride. She watches them drive off with a glare, re-focusing on Niklas as if she holds him personally responsible.

Niklas winces, but keeps on. "Please. This will just take a moment of your time. Trust me. I am terminally allergic to lies."

"Just as your stepfather's allergic to telling the truth?"

He winces again. "Point taken. But please. We're not the same person—and I beg you not to class us in the same category. To be honest, I was against summoning you here in this manner. But duty always outweighs sentiment in our profession. Surely you can understand that?"

Haji knows Saya can. But he also knows that where the Saya of the past may have capitulated to the appeal—this decade's version will not. The softness of her idealism has hardened into a bitter gray shell; it will take more than rosy rhetoric to shatter it.

"Please," Niklas says. "A one-on-one conversation is better than a boardroom ambush. I have nothing up my sleeves. See?" He holds up his hands to show his empty cuffs. His grin is coaxing, good-natured.

Saya hesitates, then, to Haji's surprise, backs down. But she still doesn't move to shake his hand. "What place for 'discussion' do you have in mind?"

Niklas glances around, eyes alighting on an all-night dinette at the corner. "Perhaps there. It will be warmer inside. If I hate this so-called  _Capital of the World_  in summers, it doesn't compare to how much I hate it in winters. From the newly-christened MTA's pathetic attempts at  _transport_ , to that lurid Christmas tree they've lit up in Rockefeller Center, this place is an overcrowded  _circus_. But as I understand, the natives hate us  _tourists_  twice as much. Still, we aren't here to listen to my bleating, are we? Please, follow me—"

Saya and Haji let themselves be guided into the restaurant. The air inside is indeed warmer, the red vinyl booths only half-full. A harried young waitress wearing a too-tight skirt high over red-stockinged thighs leads them to a rear table, barely looking Haji's large cello-case askance. Haji assumes she's seen odder things, working in the nightshift as she is.

It still stuns him, how fast time flies by. Countries, clothes, customs, all changing in an eyeblink. In the 1800s, he would never have imagined women dressing in the risqué manner they do today, traipsing in public without escorts ( _or_   _brassieres, for god's sake…!_ ) letting their hair fall loose and smoking cigarettes like men.

But neither would he have seen Saya and himself doing something as simple as eating at a luncheonette.

While restaurants had risen in popularity back then, they were mostly frequented by middle-classes; aristocracy disdained the idea of eating in public. Joel and Amshel had eaten out occasionally, but the practice was referred to, with apt snobbishness, as  _aller au charbon_ , and almost always conducted in exclusive cabarets or houses of ill-repute.

Nowadays, there are no such distinctions.

They settle into their seats, Saya and Niklas on one side, Haji and his cello-case on the other. The mirrored window beyond Saya makes it easy for Haji to track the movements of people behind him. The kitchen doors are to the right. If there's any trouble, it will take him and Saya seven steps to reach there.

It is a sick testament of their lifestyle, how they scope out innocuous restaurants as if scanning enemy terrain.

The waitress, pen and paper brandished, requests orders. Niklas studies them. "Won't you two have something? You've traveled a long way. You must be hungry."

"We're fine," says Saya.

"Are you sure? Perhaps some hot tea and a plate of cheese blintzes? My treat."

Saya shakes her head. In the bright fluorescent lights, Haji can see each distinct hair on her brows and lashes. The lavender smudges under her eyes seem starker than ever.

Gently, Haji says, "Saya, perhaps a light meal might be best. You haven't eaten since—"

"I'm fine."

"But—"

"I said  _I'm fine_." Her voice is harsher. Haji senses her throttled anger.

Exhaling, he backs down. The years have attuned him to all the nuances in Saya's voice. Taught him—the hard way—when to persist and when not to.

And the blow he received when he last crossed the line is still too fresh in his mind.

Outside the window, a young couple passes, warmly entwined and kissing. Haji's eyes shift to them with a bleak resentment he can't suppress. Niklas follows his gaze, smiling a strange smile. Quietly, he says:

_Hélas je dois mendier,_

_Pour l'espoir et le salut_

_Car ma joie arrive à bout_

_Sans votre affection,_

_Douce belle dame..._

Alas, I am left begging  
For hope and relief;  
For my joy is at its end  
Without your compassion.

Sweet, lovely lady...

Haji blinks and Saya's head snaps up. That is an old French sonnet Joel used to recite, often in jest, when he was trying to coax Saya out of her stubborn moods. Haji hasn't heard it in decades.

At their startled looks, Niklas' smile widens. "Aha. So the surname  _Goldschmidt_  isn't all we have in common."

Saya stares at him. "Where… did you learn that couplet? It's centuries old."

"A good friend recently shared it with me. His brother is an admirer of medieval literature. I thought the poem clichéd enough at the time—but it must've left a lasting impression if I can still recall it. I imagine it must be the same for you."

Saya doesn't answer. Haji can almost sense the memories of candelabras and tobacco-scented tweed the poem evokes in her, filling her mind like a bygone film-reel of happier times. Her lips move infinitesimally.

Niklas cocks his head. "Pardon? I didn't hear you, Saya."

"I-I said I'd have—those cheese blintzes. And a cup of tea. No sugar."

"Wonderful. And you Haji?"

"A glass of water is fine."

"Very well." The message is relayed, along with Niklas' order for a light salad and coffee, to the waitress.

As she shuffles off, Haji keeps his eyes on Saya, a precarious duo of emotions rising within. Relief that she is finally condescending to eat after days of starvation—and a creeping umbrage that this young man she's barely met can convince her to do so where all Haji's efforts cannot.

He's not quite sure when she become so remote to him. Had she seemed this inaccessible when they at the Zoo too?

Or is his idea of intimacy as a  _friend_  just different from a  _Chevalier's_?

Across him, Niklas leans back, hands folded in his lap. "Saya—please don't be insulted by what happened at the meeting. The last thing Red Shield needs is to alienate their chief ally."

Saya's eyes narrow. "Your stepfather lied to us. He lured us out here on misinformation."

"I won't deny that he did. But you must understand, it was a last resort on his part. These escaped Chiropterans are a dangerous threat."

"So was the situation in London."

"That may be so. And, yes, perhaps we were selfish to call you here in this manner. But we really do need your help. The authorities in New York have been distracted by a major teachers' strike in Brooklyn these few months. But once it winds down, they're bound to focus on these Chiropteran-related deaths. And realize Red Shield is responsible. After so much inner-turmoil, they'll be more than glad to point fingers at us outsiders."

"Everyone here seems to be guilty of that, one way or another," Saya snaps.

Despite the rancor of her tone, Niklas' lips twitch sympathetically. "Believe it or not, I know what you mean. People are always ready to condemn what they can't understand. It's a phobia, when you get down to it. Between different ages, different genders, different races. Even different sexualities." A shadow crosses his face, but quickly fades. "But the sad fact is, when discrimination becomes a totalitarian force—when one side outright  _refuses_  to listen to the other—revolt is inevitable. Really, that's what those worker-and-student riots back in Paris were all about, weren't they?"

"The riots in France?' Saya frowns. "Were you one of the students caught up in them?"

"You mean, did I run chanting slogans across the cobblestones while fending off tear-gas and batons? Oh no. As soon as my stepfather heard of the unrest in France, he summoned me to New York. But it had less to do with  _paternal concern_ than ensuring I didn't make a nuisance of myself."

"A nuisance?"

Niklas chuckles. "Several student radicals participating in the riots were my friends. This includes a…  _close relative_  of President de Gaulle. The boy in question reputedly spread himself stark naked on the road not too far from the Élysée Palace. Made a few rather…  _explicit_  gestures. Shouted insults. You know. The sight literally paralyzed traffic— _and_  the Council of Ministers. They say the President himself charged out like a bear and attempted to wring the boy's neck with his bare hands." He grins. "My stepfather was probably afraid I'd try something worse. Except  _he_  wouldn't be able to wring  _my_  neck in person."

The corners of Saya's mouth tic, as if catching themselves mid-sneeze—or mid-smile.

Against his will, Haji feels a sharp surge of territoriality. If he were a bloodhound, he would growl.

"What about Diva?" he cuts in. "Is she in New York? Or is that information also fabricated?"

Niklas hesitates, considering. "Well—in all honesty, we don't know. On the whole, I doubt she's in the city. But I am not personally privy to these reports. Intel is not my area of expertise. Negotiation is."

"Negotiation?" Saya pauses. "Are you in charge of solidifying Red Shield's ties to America?"

"To some degree, yes. I'm also the go-between for sending Red Shield's agents to assist US soldiers in Vietnam. We've established a branch there, to curb Chiropteran attacks. Even so, I do keep my ears open for news of our enemies. If Diva is sighted in New York, rest assured Saya, you will be the first to know."

Saya's little red mouth is implacable. "I'll 'rest assured' once that actually comes to pass."

Niklas sighs. "You're so  _harsh_. But considering your mission, it's probably why you've survived so far at all." Head tilted, he regards her with a bright-eyed curiosity. "Still, it's… a little hard to believe you're the same person described in Joel's Diary."

"Excuse me?"

Sheepish, he ducks his head. "I don't mean it as an insult. The opposite. Among Red Shield, you're seen as something of a fable. This—larger than life  _bogeywoman_. But meeting you completely dispels that illusion."

"We're here to discuss Diva's whereabouts. Not my  _dispelled illusion_ ," Saya interrupts, as if jerking them off dangerous roads.

"Of course. I apologize if my questions are making you uncomfortable. I was simply curious about—"

"It's irrelevant. I'd prefer not to waste more time. Red Shield's guilty enough of that as it is."

"I see. More a woman of action, hm? But surely you can spare twenty minutes for a break, Saya? Really, if there's one thing I've learnt in this profession, it's that more than sacrificing all your needs to duty, you have to take care of yourself first. Take a well-deserved breather. Otherwise you may as well be dead already. Suffering a step-by-step malady of  _la petite mort_ , if you catch my meaning."

The words resonate with an unsettling déjà vu. Saya's eyes widen, immediately shifting away. "That's… easy to say, but not to do."

"I understand. For a fighter like yourself, the cost of self-indulgence is often survival. You can't afford to drop your guard. Not when any moment might be your last. So instead, you shut off personal desire entirely. But perhaps it's still there. Perhaps personal desires and duties are always clashing within you, and that causes confusion."

Saya blinks, and Haji cocks his head.

This young man seems so ready to see both sides to everything, human and Chiropteran; the impartiality is a bit disconcerting.

"Mr. Goldschmidt," Haji says, polite yet precursory. "There are some things you do not have to try to understand."

"Why? Because I wear suits and ties and attend dinners instead of battles?" Niklas rests his chin in his hand with a crooked smile. "So does my stepfather. And—pardon my language—if  _I'm_  one insufferable bastard, then he's in a league all of his own."

Saya's cool voice slices the warm threads his gaze is weaving. "But given his opinion of us, you have no reason to persist being this pleasant."

He shrugs, undeterred. "I mean what I say, Saya. Just because I try to understand, don't dismiss it as duplicity. Besides. If it doesn't seem meddlesome, your history's always fascinated me. As a boy, I read all the accounts from Joel's diary about you."

Saya stiffens. "What?"

"Yes. Not just the diary, but as I grew older, I garnered information from other sources. Except every report on you was so… to-the-point. I never learnt much. Or, better put, as much I'd  _like_  to. Just cut and dried entries of your early battles. And your childhood before the disaster at the Zoo. When Diva escaped her tower, and turned your life upside down." He pauses, face going soft and bemused. "Truthfully, I don't know how you endured it."

"Endured what?"

"All the endless fighting. The bloodshed. You carry such a great burden on your shoulders. So great that it blots out sight of everything else. But surely you must have had other aspirations before? Things  _you_ wanted to do, before taking on this duty?"

The question, asked by a member of Red Shield—an organization knitted on the fabric of the word  _duty—_ seems to catch Saya off-guard. Almost immediately, her expression shades. "My aspirations have nothing to do with this mission. Which is to kill Diva. That's all I can focus on."

"True. Singlemindedness has its advantages. Probably another reason you've survived so far." Niklas drums his fingers on the table. He has the hands of a cardsharp or a sculptor, lean and clever-looking, prone to quick movement. But the nails are long, well-cut, almost eerily feminine.

Studying them, Haji is filled with a peculiar disquiet he can't yet explain.

"At Red Shield, we're always told that duty comes first in everything," Niklas adds. "Every member considers his role a sacred calling. The idea of personal desire is seen as  _ghastly_. But I wonder—is total surrender to duty a good thing? After all, we only have one life. Are we right to cut off our only happiness for the mere sake of duty?"

Saya bites her lip, not answering.

Across her, Haji frowns. None of these questions Niklas poses are new to him. He's often asked himself, watching Saya drench herself in blood nightly, watching her eyes lose their sheen hourly, if this endless vendetta is truly worth it.

Should a tragedy that happened decades ago be hoarded like a cyst in Saya's memory? Should it be allowed to lay waste to her on the inside, as clearly as all this slaughter does so on the outside?

Until he recalls the blazing fire and mangled bodies at the Zoo. Saya's tearstained face, stripped of all hope. The ice glittering in Amshel's gloating eyes. Blood dribbling from Diva's licentious smile.

And he remembers.

"Happiness and personal desire are besides the point," he says. "Not because attaining them is unimportant. But unless Diva is stopped, they can never be attained at all. Life is full of consequences, and unless we take responsibility to correct them, we're doomed to keep making the same mistakes, over and over again."

Niklas blinks, taking in Haji as if for the first time. A new awareness—almost a  _speculation_ —alighting in his gaze. His smile is hard to classify. "I see. Learn from the past to proceed with your future. You have an excellent point, Haji. But I find it odd, coming from a Chevalier. Someone granted limitless time and power. If I were in your place, I would say, 'Damn all the consequences; I'll do as I please'."

"If we 'damn all the consequences'," Saya says, "People will die. Which is why Red Shield was formed at all."

Niklas nods, contemplative. "Then as I understand, it is  _consequence_ , not duty, that binds you to this mission. Very interesting. Perhaps, in Diva's case, it is the opposite."

"What do you mean?"

Again, that same smile. Abstracted yet amused. "Perhaps this is what makes Diva and her Chevaliers so dangerous. And so powerful. Because while  _we_  die a little more each day out of  _consequence_ and  _duty_ — _they_  do not understand the meaning of those words at all."

* * *


	6. Aubade

 

* * *

 **Aubade** : morning-song.

* * *

In the bright daylight, dust motes float beneath the wisteria-twined trellis. The light circles the rooftop garden's leaves in gold, turning the roses into splashes of red. Against the vivid backdrop, Amshel's broad figure, in well-cut double-breasted brown suit, seems superimposed.

Resting his palms on the lacquered white table, he regards his three brothers intently.

"I've received word from Dr. Boris and his crew in Vietnam. The development of our 'special ingredient' is proceeding smoothly. The final product has yielded successful results. Several US soldiers are utilizing it as a steroid."

"Has there been a rise of subsequent Chiropteran attacks in the area?" James Ironside asks. The medals of his spotless uniform glint in the sunlight, bright and sharp as his gaze.

"Yes. 66%, and rising. Several soldiers using the steroid have transformed into Chiropterans within a month. The American army is rapidly losing control of the situation." Amshel's eyes narrow. "Which is where Goldsmith holdings will step in."

"What about the Red Shield branch established in Vietnam?" James asks. "I learnt their operatives are working with US soldiers to curb Chiropteran attacks. If this continues, Red Shield may form an alliance with the United States. It could ruin our plans."

"It won't. Red Shield won't be able to control the crisis in Vietnam much longer."

"What do you mean?"

"We've managed to infiltrate Red Shield's Vietnam branch. And infuse our 'Special Ingredient' among their crewmembers. Red Shield cannot aid the US if their own teams are transforming into Chiropterans. They will only double the region's chaos. Soon, America will start looking for alternatives to combat the threat. And  _we_  will be there."

James frowns. " 'Infiltrate Red Shield'? How? Have we planted a mole among them?"

"A dissenter, actually," Solomon Goldsmith says.

"What?" James head flicks to Solomon's, hawklike.

The second Chevalier smiles, crossing his legs gracefully and leaning back in his chair. The sunlight collects in his hair like a gold-glitter starburst. "One of Red Shield's high-ranking members has agreed to side with us. The in-charge, in fact, of their Vietnam branch. He's present here in New York at the moment. All our 'transactions' are being appropriated through him."

James' eyes slit. "Situations with dissenters often risk becoming volatile. Is this human trustworthy?"

"About as trustworthy as Dr. Boris and Dr. Rosenberg in Vietnam." Solomon's voice is languid as an  _aubade_ , underscoring the irony of the reply.

"About as trustworthy," Amshel says. "And as significant once our main objective is attained."

No one in the room misses the double meaning.

"Which one of us will convey our wishes to this Red Shield dissenter?" James asks. "This situation requires discretion. If you wish, I can volunteer to take charge of—"

Amshel waves a hand. "That won't be necessary, James. I have already selected a Chevalier to handle the situation."

"Who?"

"Myself," Solomon says calmly. "You didn't think I was in New York on a social visit, did you?"

James stiffens.

Solomon was previously stationed in Paris, supervising Amshel's numerous businesses as a public figurehead and envoy. Meanwhile, James was situated in New York, alongside Amshel and Diva, carrying orders on their behalf and playing the enviable role of Amshel's right-hand man and Diva's chaperone.

But the fact that Solomon, upon immediately arriving in New York, has been assigned such a critical duty indicates an unexpected shift in their hierarchy.

It is a change, and James despises change in his orderly world. He suddenly regards Solomon as a rival whose presence is far less threatening on a different continent.

"Are you sure this is the best way to approach the situation?" he demands, addressing Amshel instead of Solomon, "Double-agents are seldom reliable. Allying ourselves with one is tantamount to handing our business over. For all we know, he may sell us out."

The remark is phrased to belittle Solomon's diplomatic skills without mentioning them at all.

"He won't," Amshel says. "There are ways to curb such actions."

"Which they will be, I assure you." Solomon smiles coolly. "Really, James. You always see negotiations with third parties as a 'waste of time'. Sometimes I think you forget this is how  _you_  became a Chevalier in Berlin at all."

The offhanded remark is calculated to provoke. And it does.

"How I became a Chevalier has  _nothing_  to do with this  _human_ ," James snaps. "I was handpicked by Amshel, and Diva gave me her blood alongside her personal sanction. How  _dare_  you compare me to some—" Realization dawns. "Wait. Is this the payment Red Shield's dissenter is demanding? To join our ranks as a Chevalier?"

Solomon smiles; airy, noncommittal. "It was mentioned in the negotiations, yes."

James turns to Amshel as if seeking refutation. "Amshel. Surely you do not plan to—"

"What this dissenter demands, and what he receives as payment, is unlikely to be the same thing." Amshel answers impassively. "As it is, you need not concern yourself with this situation, James. I require your services elsewhere."

"Where?"

"To one of our labs situated in Saigon, Vietnam. You are to go there with Karl to oversee—"

"I thought I was to stay here with Diva."

For the first time, Karl, seated beside Solomon, interrupts. His black hair hangs glossy around his pallid face, the silk sheaves of his blue  _áo dài_ rustling as he leans forward. "That is why you sent for me to come here, wasn't it? To tend to our Queen?"

"There has been a change in plan. Nathan has returned from an opera production in Prague. He has agreed to take responsibility for Diva. We cannot deny that she is calmest under his charge. Yours generally has the opposite effect."

"But—"

"As well, James will need someone familiar with Vietnam's routes. You are best suited for that role, Karl."

"Why can't I stay with Diva? Between business meetings, you and Solomon will be constantly occupied. Do you think Nathan will be enough to—"

"Karl." Amshel's deep voice vibrates the air like a whiplash. "Your habit of constantly questioning my orders is tiresome. My word is the word and will of Diva. You will obey accordingly. If you stay, you will only get in the way. I would prefer to conduct our business without distractions."

"I do  _not_  get in the way! I only—"

"It has been decided. You are often more a detriment than help. Solomon, you agree, don't you?"

"Of—of course, brother." But Solomon doesn't meet Karl's angry glowing eyes.

"Then it is settled. James, prepare to fly to Vietnam with Karl by Tuesday. Once there, I expect you to provide me a full report on—"

"Better belay that request, Amshel. You'll need an extra pair of hands yet."

The voice flutters through the air like a rainbow streamer. Which always seems to be the case, no matter what subject Nathan is discussing. The brightly-dressed Chevalier, oozing languor from a warm bath and warmer hours spent with Diva, saunters into the room.

"Where is Diva?" James snaps.

Nathan stretches his arms over his head, feline, suggestive. "Not to worry, James. She's fast asleep. Who knows _,_ maybe she's even dreaming of you? One of those naughty little dreams she sometimes tells me about—involving the silk sheets and handcuffs and you slipping off that silly uniform with a feather between your teeth?"

James' eyes flash. "Shut up."

In a blink, Nathan materializes behind James, wrapping flirtatious arms around his neck. "What is it, James? You seem so  _testy_. Upset at being sent away from your lovely Mamma?"

James jerks away. "Get off me."

"Ooh!" Nathan dances away with a flourish, hand on heart. "Come now. No need to be so defensive. Really, it's the truth of things. The mama complex is  _universal_  across the centuries. It's in the entire world, the whole goddamned  _thing_ , from the untouched regions of Africa, to even more untouched, more unknown regions of, um—"

"The shores of the Bahamas." Solomon says, his tone somber, academic, like a dour university professor's. "And the darkest deadliest jungles of South America."

Nathan aims a gleeful forefinger and winks. "Correct, The darkest of the deadly, and  _deadliest_  of the darkest  _darkest_. But we've flounced off point just now, haven't we? What I  _meant_  to say was that you might get to stay with Diva yet, James."

"What are you talking about?" James snaps.

Nathan glances at the others. "What? Don't tell me none of you have  _felt_  it already?"

"Felt what, Nathan?" Solomon asks.

"Oh, you know. That terrible prickly sensation under your skin. Like a million hot fingers are playing with your skull and your spine and your balls.  _That_."

"I don't quite know what you—" Solomon breaks off, eyes shading. "Ah."

Karl gingerly rubs his arm as if it aches. "I—I feel it too. I have since last night. What is that?"

"That's your Chevalier's blood singing  _Bonjour, Chao Ban_ ,  _Aloha_ ,  _Konnichi Wa,_ and in any other language on earth,  _How_ you _doin'?_ Because the other Queen's in town!"

"Other Queen?" Solomon blinks. "Saya is in New York?"

Karl freezes. "But—according to our intel, she was last sighted in London."

"Well, if she was, she obviously isn't any _more_ ," Nathan drawls. "Blood never lies, Karl. That terrible itch zinging in your veins holds greater truth than any intel ever could."

"If so, her arrival will ruin our plans!" James snaps. "It means Red Shield is already aware of our presence."

Nathan shrugs, "True. But it could also mean something far  _less_  dire."

"What do you mean?"

"Red Shield's dissenter," Solomon says in sudden understanding. "He mentioned that the organization had established a laboratory in New York."

"What kind of laboratory?" James demands.

"One containing live Chiropterans. For analysis and experimentation. But recently, several of them escaped and fled into the city. They have been killing humans nightly. Red Shield needs to stabilize the situation before the authorities catch wind of it. Otherwise it will damage their ongoing negotiations with America. Saya was probably summoned to handle the problem."

James is dubious. "You truly believe Saya is unaware of Diva's presence here?"

"Unaware or not, care must be taken," Amshel says. "If Saya is here, we are treading on precarious grounds."

The other Chevaliers turn to face him, instantly alert.

"What do you propose?" James asks. "Should we try to locate Saya and capture her?"

"No. For the moment, we wait. Saya's arrival is too hazardous to ignore. At present, we must maintain a low profile. Several of our businesses in New York are still pending, and they are vital to our operation. Until they are concluded, we must refrain from making any sudden moves."

"Brother, perhaps I could convince Red Shield's dissenter to get closer to Saya," Solomon says. "He can feed her misinformation on the escaped Chiropterans' whereabouts. If Saya doesn't find these creatures in time, there is a chance the US government might discover them. It will damage Red Shield's image to the United States—both here, and in Vietnam."

Amshel shakes his head. "No need for that. Misinformation or not, Saya will find those escaped Chiropterans. Her scent alone will lure them to her. And as I understand, she is already facing conflict with Red Shield's chief of staff. If she learns she has been deceived, she may detach from them altogether."

"But isn't that an advantage for us?" James asks. "Devoid of her 'shield', Saya will be easier to capture."

"Not necessarily. Although Saya would be weaker without Red Shield, she would also be harder for us to locate. And, in this situation, a greater threat to Diva. Freed from Red Shield's confines, she will start scanning the city on her own. She could discover us here, purely by accident. No. It is safer to distract her with petty issues."

Nathan lets off an irrepressible chortle. "Ahh—defense is for times of insufficiency, and attack for times of surplus, hm? And here I expected you to go all Horns and Pitchfork and order an airstrike on Red Shield. You're  _much_  subtler than I give you credit for, Amshel."

"Then how do we proceed from this point?" James snaps. "Do we go about our designated tasks and hope Saya does not discover us?"

Amshel shakes his head, turning to Solomon. "Get in touch with Red Shield's dissident. Make sure he keeps Saya close to Red Shield—and sufficiently distracted by their tasks. Through his reports, we will have a window into all her movements."

Solomon nods, thoughtful. "There's a chance our dissident is already on the job. He's good at thinking on his feet, you know."

Karl shoots Solomon a beetling glare. "You sound so  _approving_  of him."

"Why not? These are useful qualities for an ally to possess."

Karl bares sharp teeth. "We both know you think in terms of  _playthings_ , not allies, Solomon."

"I beg your pardon, Karl. What—?"

Before an argument can ignite, Nathan snuffs it out with a wave of his arm. " _Down_  boys. Save your bickering for a more  _constructive_  topic."

Solomon half-turns, brow arched. "Such as?"

Assured of the room's undivided attention, Nathan grins and perches cross-legged on the table. "Tsk tsk, Solomon. _Shame_  on you. Don't tell me even Mamma's  _favorite_  has forgotten?"

"Forgotten what?" snaps James. He hates to be reminded of the coveted title his fair-haired brother holds in Diva's heart and bed. It makes him feel inadequate, second-rate—a living hand-me-down.

"Why—Diva's Long Sleep is approaching, silly boy. And you know what  _that_  means, don't you?"

Karl's eyes widen, stunned and reverent. "Diva… must choose a Chevalier to stay with her now."

A hush falls across the room. For Diva's Chevaliers, the weeks before her Long Sleep are often the most coveted, most precious. Diva, lulled into slumber, softens concurrently in mood, growing less aggressive, more sweet-tempered. Easier to nurture and control. Indeed, each Chevalier's fondest memories of Diva involve the days before her Long Sleep, when the language she uses is more softness than blows.

But the real significance of these weeks is that Diva chooses a single Chevalier to tend to her needs. And, upon her hibernation, that Chevalier has the honor of safeguarding her cocoon and shipping it in a heavily-armored container during travels. The container is transferred from Chevalier to Chevalier only in event of emergency—and only as a last resort.

"So?" Nathan sways back and forth as if to a waltz. "Have you decided which one of us will keep Diva?"

"Not yet," Solomon says. "After all, she has not yet given any indication of—"

"Approaching Sleep? True. But then, this is our lovely incomprehensible  _Diva_  we're talking about. One must be prepared for anything—and I mean  _anything_. Isn't that right, James?" He leers at the uniformed man as if sharing a joke too sordid to say out loud.

James scowls. "Isn't selecting a Chevalier usually Diva's prerogative?"

"Yes,  _generally_. But you know Diva! The poor thing's spoiled for choice! She'd grab your hand one minute, and Solomon's tallywags the next! And  _then_  where would we be?"

Solomon politely clears his throat. "I assume there is a  _reason_  you've brought up this topic, Nathan?"

"Of  _course_. Have you ever known me prattle on  _without_  one?"

"I can think of  _several_  occasions," Karl mutters.

"What?" Nathan's head snaps to Karl, sharp-eyed and insolent. "What was that, Karl? Your lips were moving, but the rest was all  _mumblemumblemumble_ …"

Surly, Karl sinks into his seat.

"Now then," Nathan rubs his hands together. "Since our Queen is disinclined to choose a Chevalier, we must settle this among ourselves. Normally, I'd suggest we draw straws or shoot for it or something—but that's so  _banal_. So instead, I've arranged a  _contest_."

"A contest?" James scowls. "We are not cadets in a naval fraternity, Nathan. None of us has time for—"

"But for  _Diva_ , I'm sure you'll  _make_  time, sweet James," Nathan croons. "Think of it this way. If you win the contest, you'll gain your beloved Mamma's favor. And we  _all_  know how  _delightful_  Diva can be with the one she favors."

The three Chevaliers' gazes shade. James' face loses its steely rigidity; Karl's eyes go dreamy; Solomon's lips curve in a secretive smile. Each immersed in private recollections and pleasurable musings.

A moment passes before Nathan makes a show of clearing his throat. "Well, whenever you gentlemen have gotten your minds out of the  _sewer_  and your ding-dongs right-side- _down_ , I'd like to inform you that the contest entails  _this_ : Diva will be attending a performance at the Met, three weeks from now. I want you all to get her something—dresses, shoes, jewelry—that she can wear to the event. He Whose Gift Diva Selects may consider himself the  _victor_."

"What guarantee is there that she won't select  _all_  our gifts?" Karl asks.

"What  _guarantee_? Oh, use your common  _sense_ , Karl! I doubt all the frippery you boys give her will match! And give Diva  _some_  credit for fashion sense! I am the one who taught her how to dress, you know!"

"Implying that you will be the one  _dressing_  her," Solomon notes. "So really, the selection of our gifts lies not with Diva, but with you, Nathan. You could easily coax her into wearing what you fancy, simply by saying it matches her eyes or skin tone.  _You_  are the one we need to fawn over."

A triumphant grin. " _Clever_  boy. Who says the pretty ones have no lights on upstairs? They just don't have to  _use_  them as often!"

"There is no point to this!" James snaps. "I refuse to participate in a meaningless—"

"Suit yourself, James. But your refusal to participate in  _this_  'meaninglessness' may lead to not participating with Diva in, um….  _several_  meaningful things."

James' eyes narrow, the unspoken message sinking in. For a moment, he, Karl, and Solomon are silent.

"We-ell?" Nathan crooks a brow. "Are you in, or not?"

"I am," Karl announces at length.

"Myself as well," says Solomon.

James hesitates, then nods. "I am willing to go along with this, if only for Diva's sake."

"Wonderful! In that case—"

"—All four of you will return to your duties. You have wasted enough time." Dour, unamused, Amshel makes his way to the door, reissuing orders as if there has been no interruption. "James, in light of Saya's arrival, you are to extend your stay another two weeks. We will need an extra pair of eyes in the city. But do not linger further than that. I need reports from our labs in Vietnam as soon as possible."

James nods. "I will not let you down."

"And Karl, you will accompany James. Begin making arrangements for your journey."

Karl's brow twitches. "Amshel—"

"It has been decided. Do not make me repeat myself, Karl. And Solomon—don't forget we have a meeting in two hours. After that, get in touch with Red Shield's dissident. Learn all the details about Saya's presence from him, and let me know immediately."

"Yes, brother. Of course." Solomon avoids Karl's scathing expression at the mention of said  _dissident_. A noxious undercurrent of jealousy hangs in the air.

Nathan gaze flicks knowingly from Solomon to Karl. Without preamble, he leaps up, accompanying Amshel out of the garden.

"Methinks there is a  _reason_  Karl's so reluctant to leave New York," he says, once they are out of earshot. "And staying close to Diva is but  _half_  of it. Could it be that he sees Red Shield's dissenter as a personal rival for Solomon's attention, the same way James sees Solomon as a business rival for  _yours_?"

Amshel doesn't slow his stride. "I have no interest in these irrelevant matters. They interfere with business. Karl must be taught to straighten his priorities."

"The boy will learn, Amshel. Sooner, if not later. And it's still better than going the  _other_  extreme. All duty and no dalliance makes Jack a dull boy. Or, in simpler terms,  _James_."

"Karl, Solomon, and James all share tremendous potential. But each of them lacks focus. Karl is single-minded to a fanatical degree. But at the same time, too impulsive and emotional. Solomon is ruthless, calculating. But like a boy, more interested in play than work. James' precision and loyalty is invaluable. But his mania for details makes him lose sight of the big picture."

"True. They are in need of a little  _polishing_." Nathan bats his eyes, deceptively coy. "What about  _me_ , Amshel? What areas am  _I_  lacking in?"

"We were not discussing you, Nathan."

"Even so! I just  _love_  to be analyzed. Or is it criticized? Ah well. Whatever gets me attention, you know."

Amshel's face is unreadable. "Strangely, I never find any areas where you are lacking. You succeed at any task I assign you. Yet you make your  _elder_  brothers vie against each other like schoolboys. All for your amusement. You are somewhat difficult to draw a bead on."

"Why Amshel! I'm  _flattered_! I never knew you bothered to 'draw beads' on  _anyone_. But I guess at heart I'm still a child. After all, the  _real_ fountain of youth is to have a dirty mind." He tilts his head, curious. "Speaking of which, why aren't  _you_  participating in this contest? Surely any present you offer Diva would  _outshine_  the others'."

"I have no interest in the matter. My only concern is expanding our resources and ensuring Diva's future. That will benefit her far more than ridiculous little things like dresses or dolls."

Nathan chuckles. "I suppose so. But bear in mind, Amshel. A man who can't bother to fulfill  _little_  duties can't be trusted to finish  _big_  ones." His smile widens, but his gaze is tipped with ice. The walls vibrate to his Chiropteran voice as if to a seismic tremor. "Then again,  _duty_  wasn't the reason you drove Diva insane in that tower of hers, was it?"

Before Amshel can reply, Nathan turns and exits the corridor.

He is still smiling. But that doesn't explain why the air behind him ripples with the leftover static that ensues screaming fights, or threats of blackmail and murder.

* * *

 


	7. Caesura Part II

**CW: Self-harm/Attempted Sexual Assault/Suicidal Ideation**

 

* * *

**Caesura II**

* * *

She's already known, before stepping off the train, that she'll hate New York.

In all her travels, to nations far and wide, she's hated big cities the most. Perhaps because their citizens seem so  _oblivious_. Preoccupied to the point of uncaring, each inhabiting their own realm of problems, as if their lives mean more than anyone else's.

As if the world itself revolves around them.

She finds it petty somehow. Sickening.

These people know nothing of the Chiropteran threat. They don't scrub blood from their clothes after battles, night after night, to save  _their_  lives. Don't wonder who endures injury and insomnia to keep  _their_ world safe.

They will never know any of this.

Yet here Saya is. Embarking on yet another journey to protect them.

_How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable,_

_seem to me all the uses of this world..._

The line from Shakespeare's play— _Hamlet_ —floats through her bleary mind. It makes her wonder when she began to view her life this way. When she started seeing these people as faceless nonentities, instead of worthy individuals to put her life on the line for. Bitterness creeps in whenever she thinks about it too much. About how futile her present is, how  _unthinkable_  her future is.

About how the only reason she lives through  _duty_  is to the promise of death.

_Diva. Duty. Death._

It is an axiom she repeats to herself sometimes—the three words indistinguishable in meaning. A cognitive factor—if that is indeed what to call it—to keep on fighting.

Sitting beside Haji in a cab that reeks of rotting leather and cheap incense, she gazes out the window. The moon rides pure and full in the sky, peering between roofs and signboards. The streets around her seem to echo with scents of everyone who crossed them hours earlier, in vehicles or on foot.

But there are no scents of Chiropterans.

Or Diva.

Saya shuts her eyes. Each idle minute feeds impatient tingles down her spine. Fills her with the irrepressible urge to  _kill_  something. She hates lulls like these. Lulls give her a chance to think. A chance to weigh out the criticality of each mission. To remember that, if she fails, Diva will be free to wreak havoc forever.

_I'll kill her before that happens._

Exhaling, she opens her eyes. The events of this day—Red Shield's meeting, the strange chat with Niklas—seem to have somehow withdrawn to an untouchable distance. Mind floating isolated above her body, which is dehydrated; verging on numb.

She's been experiencing it a lot—that numbness. A disconnection from everything emotional— _real_. Ever since that mission in London—that Red Shield  _massacre_ at her own hand—it has been omnipresent as oxygen.

_No._

_It didn't start in London._

If she were honest, she would admit it had been seeping into her, ever since that snowy mission Russia, in 1917. She still remembers the fatigue that suffused her when it was over. Remembers how eager she was to sink from her duty, and into oblivion.

She almost hadn't wanted to open her eyes ever again.

Perhaps, during each Long Sleep, each Awakening, the numbness was germinating all the while. Slowly branching into her veins, her sinews, her very  _mind_. Or perhaps, after witnessing so much human death nightly, she's forgotten how to feel human herself.

Which doesn't explain Haji.

How does  _he_  manage to stay human—stay whole—while everything around them is crumbling?

She glances at Haji from the corner of her eye. Each streetlight outlines his face in orange before throwing it back into shadow. Backlit, his features gain sharper focus. The patrician nose and sharp chin; the fine jawline and pale curve of Adam's apple. The air of coldness, common on such a sculpted face, is subdued by the dark hair curling over his cheekbones.

In this grimy cab, he should seem so incongruous—an archangel flung into a wasteland. But, as ever, he camouflages himself with his surroundings.

Tracing his profile gently with her eyes, Saya can't help reflect on how she's been treating him these few weeks. All those blows she gave him—god, how could she have  _done_  that—she who swore never to let another person suffer for her sake again? He's her comrade, her  _friend_ , and she must treat him like one. Try to be kinder to him, to be calm and rational and above all,  _distant_.

Distant  _is_  rational. Distant is appropriate to the war they are fighting.

And to the promise he has made her.

_I must be cruel, only to be kind._

_Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind..._

Abruptly, Haji, as if sensing her gaze, glances at her. Flinching, Saya looks away.

It sounds easy in theory. Except distant is the one thing she can  _never_  be with him.

And why she can no longer, for more than a split-second, endure his gaze…

* * *

The Zoo's fire cooled to ashes of memory.

Departing the burnt-skeleton mansion, Saya peered out the carriage with swollen eyes. The last shreds of her childhood faded on the breeze. Haji and she were fleeing to a summer château in the countryside—one of Joel's numerous properties. They had packed only what was necessary to them; only what could be salvaged from the blaze.

Five sets of clothes. Two leather portmanteaus. A pair of flick-knives. The Stradivarius cello.

The smell of smoke permeated everything. Even the color of Saya's thoughts.

The journey was long, punctuated by stops at dim taverns and inns. Saya weighed time only by the deepening shadows of day and night, and distance by the dark circles gathering under Haji's eyes.

Since the disaster at the cliff, she could no longer meet his gaze.

Joel's charred diary rested in her hands. One of the few items retrieved from the fire; a requiem, almost, of the man she had once called her father. Huddled in the carriage, Saya held it to her chest like a penitent's crucifix. Reading each entry, over and over, until words slipped like rosary-beads behind her eyes.

Each stamped with the shocking question.

_What am I?_

_What in the world_ am _I?_

Grief turned everything hazy. Her coherent thoughts narrowed only to the words:

 _Diva_.  _Duty. Death_.

Three points on the triad of a terrible truth.

By evening, disoriented and still-mourning, fresh disaster struck. Their carriage was ambushed by robbers, armed in sharp daggers and obscene grins. At least Saya  _thought_  they were robbers. But inconsistencies later nagged her.

Their weapons were too well-polished. Their clothes and shoes inexpensive, but strangely new. They never threatened her or Haji for money.

Dragged her hair-first and screaming from the carriage instead, for what seemed to be physical sport.

Bullied, groped, manhandled, she was shoved into their midst like a stolen trophy. One by one lanterns lifted to her face. Cold eyes studying her with the vulgar triumph of recognition. And Saya realized, chilled, what they were really after.

Her.

These men were hired professionals. Sent by Amshel to capture her, drag her back to him as his latest guinea pig.

A replacement for the girl he had once enslaved, and now called his Queen.

The first man who yanked Saya was easy to fight off. Her nails gouged red lines across his face. She kicked his shins, bit his fingers until he howled. But by the time she had broken free to run, the other men lunged at her. She felt one rough hand grab her flying hair, two more snatching the long layers of her dress. The jolt tumbled her on her hands and knees. Gravel tore through expensive fabric. She felt two bones snap in her corset.

The men seized her ankles, dragging her back like a ragdoll. Frantic, she twisted, kicking against the grotesque intimacy of those hard hands. Crude voices and dark shapes surrounded her. The sun dipped like a portent beyond the horizon.

Her heart pounded, her body melted, red filled her eyes, and she'd never been more terrified in her entire life.

But nothing prepared her for what followed.

At some point, Haji had gotten tangled in the fray. Fighting to free her from the men, from the fate sure to await her at Amshel's hands. The nearest robber never saw his pale fist flying until too late. Blood splattered. Teeth fell like rotten almonds in dirt. The other men, startled, glanced up at the intruder.

He was unarmed. Alone. Apparently defenseless.

And, like coyotes sniffing wounded prey, they abandoned their girl-quarry and flew at him.

The moment Saya saw their knives whip out, she screamed.

_No—!_

_They're going to kill him._

The resultant scuffle was brutal. None of her fencing lessons, none of the stories she'd read of soldiers in valiant battle, prepared her for such sadism. The men attacked like animals for the last scrap of meat. She had no idea what Haji used for muscle against them. But he used it. Blows flew and cartilage crunched. Dust swirled and blood splashed the air.

But in a fight of five against one, she knew who would prevail.

Until—

The wings.

_God._

She'd never forget those eerie wings. They erupted out of Haji's back, flapping, monstrous, in shreds of cloth and flesh. For a moment she wondered if they were even  _real_. Wondered if the overdose of grief and terror hadn't made her delirious.

Those wings, Haji's glowing eyes, the screaming men in the dusk…

It had to be what insanity was like.

Suddenly everything blurred up. Succumbing to his feral new blood, Haji attacked the men with as little mercy as they attacked him. The air resonated with bone-crunches and screams. Bloodlust shimmered like the heat illusion on a summer road.

And one by one, mangled and torn, the men toppled down.

Leaving only Haji standing in their midst. In a macabre sight that would haunt her till her dying day.

_Your fault._

The disembodied voice rang inside her.

_This was your fault._

_Because of_ your _blood._

 _Because of_ you _._

The voice echoed, even as Haji's wings retracted and he staggered closer. Echoed, even as he reached for her and she shied back. Echoed, even as she saw the hurt and shame flash across his bloodsmeared face, as if  _he_  was the culprit, not she.

Until he whispered her name, and re-awareness crashes back to her. Reminding her of what had happened at the Zoo, what had happened afterward, and what  _would_  have happened now—if he hadn't been here.

_Diva. Duty. Death._

The words seemed interlinked now. Three catalysts of an insurmountable tragedy.

With  _her_  as the origin.

Sobbing miserably, she fell towards Haji. But even as he clutched her tightly, breathing her name over and over, hands questing her trembling body for wounds, she could not meet his eyes.

After tonight, she feared she would never be able to again.

* * *

The next morning, Haji caught her ripping open her own skin.

Gauging it with her nails, as if to expel the corrosive blood that she shared with Diva. The blood that had made her different from everyone without knowing why, that had infected Haji's body and life, that had lured her like a charmed cobra to Diva's tower as surely as the seduction of her sister's song.

The reason why Joel—so many others—were dead now.

Enraged at pandering to each disaster, she screamed and ripped her skin open, hoping to drain the blood out. And watched as the wounds healed instantly to supple smoothness.

She wanted to go on the whole night, peeling herself like a rotten fruit until she reached the rancid core inside.

But then Haji grabbed her hands so  _tight_ , pleading over and over until she thought he might cry.

_Saya—stop._

_I'm begging you. Please stop._

And for his sake, if nothing else, she did.

She'd already brought him—everyone around her—enough pain.

The first night at Joel's chateau, Haji stayed in her room. She was aware of his presence, but in the instinctive way one was aware of walls or oxygen. Aware too, that though he lay stretched out on the chaise like a lanky bearskin rug, he never shut his eyes.

She never shut hers, either.

Memories of fire and fangs caroused through her mind. She saw the ceiling ripple with tears. Felt them slide hot, then cold, down her cheeks. She made no move to stop them. Hunger gnawed, inseparable from grief, but she couldn't eat.

Every three hours, she threw up. Something seemed to be struggling out of her, tangled like an indigestible bolus in her intestines. It was as though grief was more an entity than emotion. As if it had permeated her like a physical presence, and was now fighting to pour out of her mouth.

Day was indissoluble from night. Time was punctuated only by Haji's pale face hovering near hers.

 _Saya,_  he whispered.  _Please eat something._

She wanted to ask,  _what for?_  But her throat was raw, as if she's purged her vocal cords along with her body's conserved nourishment. Heartbeat too strong; unnatural. She half-wanted to reach into her chest, skin rippling and bubbling like water, and wrench the organ out.

Until the night Haji slipped into her bed.

Sometimes, she wondered if she had dreamt it. Her mind had melted into incoherent oozings in the Zoo's fire. Awareness was warped; percolating into a mass of greasy hair and unwashed flesh.

But still…

She remembered it so clearly.

That unconscious half-frown on Haji's face. Eyes glinting with what could be candlight or his own determination.

She remembered how he had climbed fully-dressed into the bedsheets, encircling her in one arm. His fingers smelled like ash when he brushed the hair off her face. Later, she'd learnt it was from holding the still-reeking pages of Joel's diary, which he had read on a sleepless night that was to be the first of millions.

She felt him tilt her head up like a doll's. Felt his breathing, cool, contemplative, on her face. Then his lips pressed to hers, something thickish, coppery, seeping through. The first taste gagged her. Mouth so dry that the insides seemed sealed together, spasming at the sudden invasion.

Then fluid slipped through. Burning down her throat, exploding in a hot rush of weight in her belly.

Blood.

Oh _blood._

Her lips parted on Haji's by conditioned reflex. Throat working and she gulped and gulped around an unobtrusively slick tongue.

Right then, she didn't care where the blood came from; didn't care how Haji managed to hold such a huge quantity in his mouth. Later she learnt it was a trick he had been taught on the streets, holding morsels, coins, even sharp blades in his gullet. Learnt too, that he had gotten the blood from an old man in the village beyond the château. That the scent had lured him after the food in the kitchens couldn't slake his awful thirst.

Instead, helpless against instinct, he'd stumbled into town, and drained the first victim he got his hands on.

He hadn't killed the old man—he came to his senses too soon for that. But the feel of stringy hair and wrinkled flesh under his teeth, the hard-yet-yielding tear of muscle, the hot cauldron of blood filling his mouth, had been Haji's second critical lesson on the animalism of his new body.

The ruthless flow of his new blood.

But she didn't know this until later. Only drew blood from his mouth, arms wrapped around him. Rocking beneath his weight in a rhythm that wasn't sexual so much as desperate. Needful motion. His presence reminded her, in every breath and gulp, that she was alive.

And, as the stupor of her psychosomatic  _caesura_  dispelled, she understood why.

_Diva. Duty. Death._

The three words merged together now. Resounding with a single truth.

_I have to kill them._

_Because I'm alive, I have to kill them._

It was the only reason she could allow herself to exist anymore.

Months later, facing Haji on that rumbling train, she told him to make her a promise. Holding his eyes all the while, because after days of avoiding his gaze, it seemed important to meet it now. But as the words  _I want you to kill me_  left her tongue, as Haji's eyes widened in a visual scream of denial, she understood  _why_  she had avoided them at all.

How could she beg him for death—this man who had saved and sustained her continuously—when his eyes filled her with an unstanchable urge to  _live_?

_Diva. Duty. Death._

His lips may have pledged allegiance to all those things. But there was mutiny in his eyes.

And she had a feeling, that by telling him to keep this promise, she'd bound him to her more permanently than blood-kisses ever could.

And denounced not just her life, but also his.

_It is not, nor it cannot come to good…_

_But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue._

 

* * *

 


	8. Con Forza

 

* * *

 **Con forza:** with force.

* * *

The room they solicit is in a boarding house east of Avenue A. The buildings are stumpy as rotted teeth, garbage overflowing from the empty lots and onto weed-cracked sidewalks. The smell in the air reminds Haji of an open-air toilet.

The room, comprising of a rickety bed and a tiny bathroom, is scented in years of dirt. Outside, traffic is an omnipresent hum. Haji can imbibe every sound and scent—his senses vibrate with the city's aura, so _sharp_.

But the rest of him: empty as Saya's gaze.

The room feels empty too, even though Saya is right there. Even though she has yet to put her mark on the space—which she never will. Duty presses them to constant travel. What use is there to notice your surroundings, when it doesn't matter where the sun rises or sets tomorrow?

It is futile, yet his photographic memory still keeps a record of each hotel room they check into.

An epitaph, almost, of the lives no one knows they've lived.

Saya lies in bed, covered head-to-toe in faded sheets. Haji wonders if she does so to separate herself from him, even in sleep. Her sword rests by the cardboard nightstand, hand loosely curled around the hilt. He watches her fingers tremble, spasmodic; she tics and twitches as if tangled in lightning.

Nightmares.

He knows her sleep is rived with them. So many nights, he's watched her thrash in bed as if drowning. Heard her cry familiar names; Joel's, Amshel's, Diva's. Each one ending on a single cry:

" _Don't_."

Sometimes, watching tears fall from her eyes, Haji thinks it's her unseen enemies she's speaking to.

Other times, watching her jerk awake with red eyes and an aching blood-thirst, he realizes it is to  _herself_.

A superstitious man would recite incantations for every room they stay in. Symbolically banishing each evil spirit that pollutes Saya's sleep. But all such fancy bled out of Haji on the day of his death at the Zoo's cliffs.

The rooms they solicit are prayer-pristine. It is just Saya who is haunted.

She moans now, low and piteous, twisting beneath the sheets. The sleep-sound burns through his entire body. Other nights, it is a different moan that burns him. A nightmare is only a nightmare, but a dream is never just a dream. Often, he tastes a peculiar excitement scenting the air around her, like overbaked gingerbread.

It is those nights when Haji wants to shake her awake the most.

And not because hers is the only sanity he fears for.

Saya twists, breathing ragged, struggling with the sheets as if wrestling demons. Nervous, Haji maneuvers his eyes. Tonight seems a night for her Bad Dreams. They are all bad, but most are worse than others. The fact that he's begun to subcategorize them makes him wonder how much distress one can get used to, if one must.

 _There is no catastrophe in life that cannot worsen,_  Joel used to say.  _And no catastrophe that cannot become normal._

Haji assumed it meant adaptation to disaster was inevitable. But now, he wonders. Is adaptation really  _adaptation_? Or just resignation?

Joel is no longer alive to answer.

"Saya." He isn't aware of saying her name. But when the sound slips past his lips, it seems to hang in the air—shimmery red.

Senseless, Saya tosses and turns.

Moving to the bed, Haji shakes her. "Saya—wake up."

She winces, head thrown back. Her eyes roll back and forth beneath closed eyes; skin clammy under a film of sweat. He feels her pulse racing beneath his fingertips.

"Saya—wake up."

One hard jolt does it. Abruptly, her eyes snap open, blind and shiny as a doll's. She jerks from his grasp, scrambling back against the headboard. A metallic  _hiss_ , and her sword is unsheathed. Reflected light from the blade catches in her wild eyes.

" _What_? What is it?"

Haji raises his hands. "Saya, calm down. You were having a nightmare."

She doesn't answer. Her breathing is ragged. Her eyes slide left to right, reaffirming her surroundings. Automatically, he leans over her as he always does when she wakes from bad dreams. Sweeps one pale hand across the air above her body, emblematically gathering night spirits, decimating them with a soft finger-snap.

The sound jerks and then slackens Saya like a sedative. All at once, she is still.

His mother used to do that, when he had nightmares as a child. She would blow cool air across his forehead, murmuring half-heard mantras to ward off fear. But Haji knows it isn't the gesture's spiritual significance that soothes Saya. It is the familiarity.

Which is, he suspects, what lures most people to superstition at all.

Swallowing, Saya leans on her drawn-up knees. Her eyes are open, fixed on the floorboards. Or at nothing. Haji wants to know what she dreamt of, but is afraid to ask. Her scent transmits the intensity of her inner-turmoil. And her hunger.

"Saya…"

Again, she jerks, sword upraised. "What?"

A bitter byproduct of the war. Each time he says her name, she expects him to prophesize doom.

Haji raises a hand. "It's nothing, Saya. There is no danger _._ "

"What then?"

"Nothing. Just… you should eat something."

She stiffens, eyes going vague, inward. "I'm not hungry."

"Please. This regimen of yours has gone on too long. You cannot rest in this state, let alone fight."

"It isn't your concern. Leave me alone."

"But Saya—"

"I  _said_  leave me alone."

Haji stifles a sigh. This will  _kill_  her if she continues. Doesn't she realize that? He half-wants to slit his palm open and gargle the blood into his throat like medicine. Pin her to the sheets and force her to drink until the weakness leaves her.

Let her rip his head off afterwards. At least he'll die knowing she is no longer starving.

Instead, hands curling into loose fists, he murmurs, "At least… drink something."

"I did. Tea with Niklas. Don't you remember?"

_Of course I do._

_He convinced you to do what I haven't been able to in weeks._

_And still_ can't _._

His own resentment shames him. It seems reprehensible to feel that way—especially at a time like this. The bottom line is to keep Saya healthy, alive. The ways and means are unimportant.

But logic, like good sense, tends to dissipate in the face of love.

"Saya—that was hours ago. If you continue this way, you will fall ill. You have an important duty to accomplish. Sickness is the last thing you need."

"The last thing I  _need_  is for you to keep me reminding of my  _duty_. I know what I have to do. If you think, like Red Shield, that I constantly need to be put in my place like a child—'

"Saya, you know that is not what I meant." Lately, she seems determined to take her problems with Red Shield out on him. As if his individuality has devolved into a faceless gender for her.

Just another man who talks down on her—makes her look  _weak_.

"I  _know_  how you meant it. You think that without your constant  _hovering_ , I'll be helpless. That I won't be able to do anything by myself."

"Saya. You are twisting everything I say. But starving yourself will not solve anything. If you continue this way, you will only—" He breaks off. The sour words percolate in his throat.

"If I continue, I'll  _what_?" Her voice is low, terse, deliberately copying his speech patterns. "I'll  _die_? Keel over mid-battle like a powerless damsel and—"

"Saya. Don't." He exhales, looking away. "Please. Forget I spoke."

"Why? A minute ago you couldn't stop  _talking_." She sits up straight, sheets pooled around her waist. The venetian blinds cast a silver stripe across her narrowed eyes.

"Please, Saya. Let it go. I have no wish to argue with—"

"Why not? You seem so determined to keep  _trying_."

Haji raises his hands, conciliatory. "Saya, I know what you are trying to do. And it is not going to work. Please. Just—"

" _What_? What am I trying to do? Pick a fight with you? Antagonize you? Why would I bother? You're not worth it. Anything I dish out, you just lie there and take it. Where's the challenge in that?"

He barely winces. "I am only doing what you need me to do."

"And just what do I need you to do? Be a wet blanket around my shoulders? Someone who pretends his opinion even  _matters_  to me?"

"If it didn't matter to you, Saya, you would not be so angry right now."

Her eyes flash, and suddenly she's on her feet. Haji's shoulders tense without his realizing it. He knows that sere-eyed, thin-lipped look of hers. Her body holds the concentrated venom of a cobra.

"Don't think I haven't noticed the way you're talking to me lately," she hisses. "If you have something to say, just  _say_  it. Otherwise I've told you already. We should go our separate ways now."

"Saya, you know that is not what I want. And I doubt is what you want either."

"You sound so  _sure_! You keep putting me on some—some stupid pedestal as if I stand for  _good_  and  _justice_. But all you know about me is just  _wrong_!"

"That may be so. But I have no intention of giving up on you."

" _Giving up on me_? Why do you keep acting like I'm the same girl I was at the Zoo? As if I'm still  _Saya_? I'm  _not_. All I am is—is  _this_." She waves a hand, illustrating the red eyes and bared fangs. Which should unnerve, or at least repulse him—but instead hold his gaze with the chill fascination of a red-lipped succubus.

Halequined by moonlight… does she have any right to look that riveting?

His mind tells him no. But his body, infused with Chiropteran's blood, seems to have other ideas.

"We both know there is more to you than that, Saya. If you were a monster, you would not be starving yourself out of guilt. You would be the way Diva is. Remorseless. Uncaring of consequence. With human blood on your breath."

The last sentence is too much. Snarling, she hefts the lamp on the nightstand and flings it at him. Haji sidesteps in a swift economy of motion. Glass and porcelain shatter on the wall behind him.

Now they are squared off on either side of the bed, like an arena of challenge. It seems eerily symbolic.

"Shut up!" she snaps. "I am sick of you always  _handling_  me! That  _isn't_  what you're in this war with me for. I don't need your patronizing—"

"It is not patronizing. I only wish to help—"

"What makes you think I  _need_  your help? You think just because things are difficult I should lean on your shoulder? Because I'm weak and helpless and you're  _there_ —"

"Saya, I know you are angry. I will not pretend not to know why. Nor will I ask you not to be. But all I want is to console you—"

The moment her eyes blaze, he knows this is the wrong thing to say.

" _Console_? Do you think I  _care_  about being consoled? Especially at a time like this? Diva is still out there! There are Chiropterans prowling this city! People are all dying because of a mistake  _I_  made, and you—"

He hadn't wanted to fight dirty with her. But he cannot preserve fair play when she is yanking him from pillar to post so heartlessly. "—What good will it do to Diva's victims if you wall yourself off this way, Saya? You may think you are getting stronger, denying even your basic needs. But it will only make you more vulnerable to attack. Then your mission—all the sacrifices you've made—will amount to nothing."

She blanches, rigid. For a moment Haji thinks she will fly at him, tear him limb from limb. Instead, she sways, grabbing the bedpost. Under the ubiquitous hum of traffic, he can hear her heart hammering. But the sounds only heighten the silence.

She seems to be holding her breath.

Carefully, he steps around the bed. "Saya. I know you are upset with Red Shield. You have good reason to be. But all I ask is that you not drift away like this. I do not want to cosset you—I'd like to help you be stronger. We are in this battle for the same reasons. The last thing we need is to be at odds."

Saya's eyes slip from his. Where she was once positively aglow with rage, now she just seems diffused. Her expression—over the years, he has memorized thousands of them into a complex catalogue—is indecipherable.

"Haji…"

His breath catches before he can help himself. It's been  _six weeks_  since she's done something as personal as even say his name.

"I—I'm sorry. " Her throat works. "I just—I'm sorry, but I can't do this."

"What?"

Before he can step closer, she shakes her head, hand upraised. The droop of her shoulders belies a terrible shaking.

"I just can't do this anymore. All this blood. The duty and fighting. With every Awakening, it just gets harder and harder."

"You have faced bigger obstacles than this, Saya. You will find yourself again."

She shuts her eyes. "It's too late for that. This—this  _thing_ —it's all I am anymore. There's no use in hoping I'll get better. But I have no reason to drag you down with me. I don't need you to fight my battles. You should go."

Her face, set in lines of resignation, chills him. Not because he knows himself well enough to realize that he'll have nothing left if Saya sends him away. But because he knows  _Saya_  well enough to realize that she actually  _would._

"Saya—how can you ask me that?"

She doesn't answer. Looking at her hands, the floor, anywhere but at him, she slumps into bed. Her bangs curve in dark lines toward her chin, trembling with her breath.

"I'm sorry, Haji. I just can't stand anyone else getting hurt because of me. I've made you go through enough at my expense. There is a limit to everything."

"We are in this battle to fight Diva. Not to keep score with one other."

She makes a tight noise that could be a cough, or a strangled sob. "That's easy for you to say. I already owe you so much. But I can't keep relying on you every step of the way. You should leave."

"Saya, is this about Red Shield? Are you sending me away to prove some theory about me—about them—to yourself? Or about men in general?"

She winces, but doesn't deny it. Her shoulders droop lower. "It's like Joel said at the meeting. Only trained dogs are faithful. Men… are not."

"Saya." He sinks to his knees before her. In the filtered moonlight, her face seems carved in marble—cold, somber. Incapable of laughter or even smiles. It makes him wonder if he ever truly saw her smile at all. Ever truly heard her laugh.

Perhaps their days at the Zoo were just a fantasy his mind conjured up, to ease this nightly despair?

"Saya—whether only dogs are faithful, and men are not, I cannot say. But before seeing me as a man or a dog, please remember: I am your friend. I always have been."

Her eyes squeeze shut, as if rejecting a sight too horrible to endure. "But that just makes it  _worse_. I can't risk any more friends suffering for my sake. It's just too much. Every injury you take is on my head. And I don't just mean during the mission. I mean by  _my own hand_."

So this is what it's about, Haji realizes. The blows she gave him earlier. All this time, her silences, her outbursts—where he'd seen them as signs of escalating temper, they were really misdirected offshoots of her own self-hatred.

And goading him to leave her now is just another way of confirming her own unworthiness.

Haji shakes his head. Sometimes he wonders if all women handle their pain so perversely—or if Saya is just the exception.

"It was only a handclap, Saya. It barely drew blood. I have received worse."

"It's no excuse, Haji. I shouldn't have done it at all."

"I am your Chevalier. It is what I am built to take." Unable to help it, he lifts a hand, wanting to smooth the hair from her face.

She swats it away. " _Stop_  making justifications for me!  _No one_  is built to take this over and over, and we  _both_  know it! You keep forgiving everything I do as if I'm full of eternal  _goodness,_ or as if I'll get _better_. I  _won't_. All I am now is  _this_. This bitter, heartless husk."

"Saya—" He reaches for her, but she jerks away, burying her face in her hands. She doesn't cry. Her pain at this moment seems beyond simple tears. Tentatively, Haji touches her hands, prying them finger-by-finger off her face. And, when she doesn't hit out, can't resist drawing them into his own.

"Saya, the trauma of fighting has just numbed you. But you will not be this way forever. I refuse to believe that. Please have a little faith in yourself."

Her mouth twists, hair spilling in tangles around her face. "How  _can_  I? Everything's gone wrong because of a mistake  _I_  made. How can you even ask me to—"

Her wavering voice tightens his throat. Gently, he takes face in his hands. "Saya—if you truly wish for me to leave, I will. But only if I know you will be all right. Perhaps if you had someone else to help you fulfill your duties—another Chevalier, or—"

He watches her face as he speaks. The crepuscular moonlight makes her skin glow, an echo to the happy radiance that once filled her at the Zoo. But then her eyes snap open at his words—stark, frantic—and the fantasy dissipates to smoke.

" _Another_ Chevalier—?" Her voice is raw. "Have you lost your _mind_?"

"Saya—"

Before he can blink, she's grabbed his lapels, dragging his face to level with hers. He feels her heated breath on his face; sees each glossy curl of eyelash. There are tears now. Thick and gelid, as if congealed from days of suppression. She shakes him so hard his bones rattle.

"I don't  _want_  another Chevalier! I'd never let another Chevalier  _touch_  me! Not out of  _duty_ —or—or  _anything else_! Ohgod—how can you even  _imagine_ —"

Before he can calm her down, before the first apology can leave his lips, he hears an echoing  _crash_ , followed by a bloodcurdling human scream.

And then—a familiar  _roar_.

As one, Saya and his heads snap to the door—a split-second before it flies off its hinges. Three massive shapes hurtle through in a rain of splinters and the stench of raw meat.

Haji knows what they are, even before Saya scrambles to her feet, shrieking that well-known command—a chord struck  _con forza_.

" _Haji—sword_!"

At the same moment, the Chiropterans lunge.

* * *


	9. Attaca

 

* * *

 **Attaca:**  an attack; to proceed into a musical movement without pause.

* * *

Solomon Goldsmith's high-rise on Upper West Side, one of the earliest properties he purchased, serves as both a private oasis and a de facto family nest.

It is here that Solomon retreats to unwind after a hectic schedule, here that Diva is often housed, here that a shopping-bag laden Nathan stops by during frequent trips downtown, and here that Karl spends the night instead of at his hotel.

The apartment, a gleaming blend of classic and minimalist, is decorated with abstracts and antiques, gathered during Solomon's travels. A floor-to-ceiling window at the dining-room overlooks a palatial terrace, framing the city skyline.

Solomon likes to stand by the parapet at night, and watch the skyscrapers.

So high up, unshackled by gravity, his thoughts are always clearest.

But tonight, he has no time to enjoy the view.

Brother Amshel, seated at the dining area's polished table, is here on business. It isn't like Amshel to make such visits; usually, Solomon is summoned to see  _him_. But the fact that he's made this trip personally indicates he has important matters to discuss.

His presence always makes Solomon uneasy. His big brother has a way of looking at him, as if he can see through the expensive suits and cool poise, into the hapless, directionless young man Solomon was before becoming a Chevalier.

His eyes, always evaluating, judging, in a way Solomon finds deeply unnerving.

Once, late at night, in a confidential mood, Solomon had murmured this to Karl. And Diva, cuddled between them, her dark hair tangling their bare skins like a spiderweb, had giggled,  _At least when Amshel looks at you, he sees the real_  you _, silly._

Solomon never understood why his Queen's words felt so disturbing.

Pouring two glasses of blood, he quickly brings Amshel up to speed on the situation in Vietnam. He's convinced Red Shield's dissenter to put doses of the Special Ingredient into the Vietnam team's water supplies. As a result, one out of three Red Shield operatives have transformed into Chiropterans since last week. The US, wary of the sudden death-toll, have sent stiff inquiries to the organization's chief of staff, ordering them to curtail the problem.

"...At this rate, the United States will drop Red Shield as an ally," Solomon says. "Goldsmith holdings will soon have the floor."

"Hm." Expressionless, Amshel sips his drink.

Solomon hasn't expected glowing praise. Nonetheless he was hoping for a few sparing words of approval. But Amshel is always so difficult to please. Nothing Solomon does is ever good enough for him.

His own father had been precisely the same way.

Pushing his drink aside, Amshel says, "This process is taking longer than anticipated. I want you to double the results."

"Double them?"

"Yes. Get in touch with Red Shield's dissident tonight. Tell him to increase the Special Ingredient's flow. I want Red Shield's teams infused with higher doses before February."

Solomon blinks, setting his glass down. "Before February? But brother. I already convinced him to smuggle 54% into the team's water supplies a fortnight ago. In order to increase the amount, we need another means to transfer the material."

"Then find one. I expect the US to eliminate all ties with Red Shield, before the Vietnam War is over. Our laboratories will have perfected their experiments on the D-base by then. We will be able to launch into the next phase of our operation."

Solomon nods. This is nothing Amshel hasn't told him before, but he would never dare to say so. "I'll talk with Red Shield's dissident. Perhaps I can find some way to convince him."

"There is no 'perhaps', Solomon. Either you can, or cannot. At your age, I would have perfected the operation and sealed its results by now."

"Yes, big brother. But... circumstances have changed since then. There are no such things as face-to-face transactions anymore. The hierarchy of middlemen between both parties takes time to—"

Amshel's face is like granite. " _Excuses_. There are no 'changes' in the world of business, Solomon. Faces alter and titles shift. But basic tactics remain the same. It is the center, not the framework, you must focus on. Remember what I always tell you.  _Give me control of a nation's money and I care not who makes her laws._  Because money is what determines everything else. If you cannot complete this simple duty, I will assign it to James. And send you back to Paris."

_Assign it to James?_

Though he offers no visible reaction, Solomon cringes inside. If he fails, James will never let him live down the disgrace. Succeeding at this task is not just a notch on Solomon's credentials; it is a means of proving himself to Amshel. He's worked hard and long in Paris, completing each task he was assigned, to earn the privilege of undertaking this major operation in New York.

If he's sent back to Paris, it is equivalent to a  _demotion_.

The thought makes him seethe.

"Of course, brother. I will see to the matter immediately."

"Good." Amshel's tone brooks no argument. Taking his glass, he swirls the blood around. "Remember, Solomon. This is a crucial stage of our operation. The duties assigned to your brothers are important. But yours plays the central role. James is our eyes and ears, and Nathan and Karl the arm and claw. But you are the mouth." His eyes meet Solomon's—a gaze that grips vitals and throat in a ruthless ice fist. "And you are equipped with fangs. Use them. Or I will tear each one out."

The message is eerily clear.

Solomon nods, unable to look away. Amshel terrifying when he is in these moods.

Moreso because Solomon knows he means every word he says.

"I-I will not let you down, brother," he says. "You will have your results. Depend on it."

* * *

In a brilliant rain of glass, the Chiropteran falls headfirst out the apartment window.

Over the clamor of breaking shards, Saya's murderous battlecry rings.

She clings to the falling Chiropteran, pinioning its leathery body with her sword. Gravity tugs. Plummeting, glass and Chiropteran fall to the pavement below. The Chiropteran, heavier in mass, lands first. The impact, a bone-crunching  _thud_ , leaves a rough crater across the sidewalk.

The Chiropteran roars as Saya wrenches her blade free from its belly, residual glass hailing around them in a cataract.

Her eyes blaze red, mimicked by the blood streaking the sword's groove.

Snarling, Saya swings her sword down, plunging it deep into the Chiropteran's throat. The reaction is immediate. With an unholy bellow, the beast rattles into crystallization. Its spewing blood ignites into ruby-colored stardust.

" _Saya—behind you_!"

Sword at hand, Saya whirls just as the remaining two Chiropterans leap out the window.

Haji, cello-case slung on shoulder, is not far behind them. He lands beside Saya, light as a pouncing cat. Across them, the Chiropterans collide like airborne demons across the tarmac.

Immediately, Queen and Chevalier slide into attack stances. Haji can feel the adrenaline fizzling off Saya's body; smell the bloodlust radiating off the Chiropterans.

Both sets of predators' eyes glow an ominous red.

Without warning, the Chiropteran on the left charges. Haji moves eyeblink-fast, swooping forward and hurling his silver daggers in a pindot spray. The blades bite like individual fangs into the Chiropteran's flesh. Blood and saliva splatters the air as the beast  _roar_ s.

But Saya, utilizing the disruption, has already struck.

Ethereal blue tracks her sword as she swings it scythelike across the Chiropteran's chest. With a lurid squelch and a spurt of hot blood, the blade sinks right to the bone. Saya's blood fuses into the creature's system.

Gray cracks blossom across tough-pebbled flesh. The Chiropteran, a howling stone golem, shatters across the tarmac.

The third Chiropteran, sensing a combative breach, pounces toward Saya. At once, Haji swings his cello-case forward like a battering ram, catching the Chiropteran midair and flinging it back with impact.

_Thud._

Bones crunch. The Chiropteran is tossed brutally sideways.

Behind Haji, Saya darts out in a flash, pirouetting to sink her sword into the battered Chiropteran's arm. The creature's head flies back in an enraged bellow—but the sinewy body does not crystallize.

Haji realizes, too late, that Saya forgot to recoat her sword in blood—

—A moment before a monstrous arm lashes out, claws plowing through Haji's chest.

White lights explode before his eyes. He feels searing pain and hears the  _crunch_  of splintering bones.

The world tilts in a riot of color as he is hurled back. Skidding across rough concrete, he has just enough time to see Saya darting out of the Chiropteran's way before gleaming jaws snap for her skull. Rolling into a protective couch, arms crossed across her body, she swivels and jabs her sword across the Chiropteran's massive legs.

But the beast, sensing the oncoming blow, evades with astonishing speed.

Haji watches  _shamshīr_ -sharp claws swipe at Saya's head. She swings her sword in time, blade held vertical, countering the blow; the shrill  _clang_  of steel resonates amid fleeting sparks.

Her thumb grazes the sword's sharpened groove, blood painting a liquid stripe.

The Chiropteran charges for her again, just as she leaps away, spinning in the blur of a dervish, weapon sweeping forward.

The creature, slavering, frenetic, attempts to dodge her blow. But in that much time, Haji has regrouped to lunge forward in a zigzag volt. His cello-case batters the creature sideways, placing it directly within trajectory of Saya's sword.

Muscle and vertebra sever. With an almighty grunt, arms straining in effort, Saya slices her blade clean through the Chiropteran's throat.

A vast cascade of blood erupts, splattering Saya and Haji's faces. The Chiropteran's decapitated head arcs through the air, tumbling across the street, leaving an erratic trail of blood behind. The body, jittering, succumbs first to paralysis, than gritty dissipation.

Glitters of blood-crystal float eerily though the air.

The battle concluded, the night is still.

Panting, bloodsmeared and barefoot, Saya leans on her sword, propped blade-first against the tarmac. Around them, the Chiropteran's carcasses resemble gargoyles tumbled from their plinths, gruesome in an impotent, shriveled-up sort of way. Drying blood paints the street with gleaming black patches.

With quick efficiency, Haji's eyes flick Saya's body for wounds. "Are you all right?"

She nods, breathing a tad sharper than he is accustomed to. Her eyes are on the dark stain across his shirt, the claw-wound beneath already healing.

Her gaze shades. Haji watches that familiar self-hatred fill her expression.

"Haji—I—"

He has no idea what she is going to say.

Because in the next breath, their flat explodes in flames.

The shockwave is intense. Caught off-guard, he and Saya are flung against the far wall. The momentum—a physical  _attacca_ —crushes the air out of Haji's lungs. Grunting, he slumps across gritty cement, feeling Saya squirm beside him.

Debris rains everywhere. Glass, wood, metal, stone. He feels searing heat; sees a world plunged in hellish yellow. Though the explosion was high above him and Saya, he smells acrid flame and suffocating smoke.

Blinking through the haze, he sees fire devouring the apartment fifteen floors above him. In the residual aftershock, people, screaming, panicked, rushing from the fire escapes, bursting through doors and windows.

And, over the thunder of flames, he hears the sudden whoop of fast-careening sirens.

Beside him, Saya's eyes glow red. She says two words that dispel Haji's horror into understanding—then icy rage.

"Red Shield."

* * *

"Nathan?"

"What is it, precious?"

She sits up in bed, the blue goosedown quilt and green pillows a peacock-colored landscape. Perched cross-legged behind her, Nathan brushes her hair. One hundred strokes, so it spills satin-black into his hands.

Diva can see him in the ornate mirror beyond. He looks vaguely elfin with his hair in bumblebee-curls around his face, shirt open to the waist. His expression is dreamy-eyed. But also watchful.

Even in the most delirious moments, a part of Nathan always seems to be watching from the sidelines. Meting out endless mockery and judgement. Like an actor performing in a drama.

Or a playwright directing one.

"Nathan—why is the place so empty? I can't feel any of the others."

"That's because they've all gone, Diva dear."

"All gone?" The words are a bitter premonition on her tongue. "Where did they go?"

Nathan tilts his head. "Well, Amshel is busy man. He's at some big-shot meeting uptown. James is off making arrangements for his trip to Vietnam—you know him;  _everything_  must be handled in advance to save time for you. As for Karl; I told him I'd be seeing to you tonight, so he left in a sulk like the Prince of  _Dork_ ness. And Solomon—we-ell, he's either conducting negotiations with the enemy, or stuffing some new conquest. Or  _both_."

"Stuffing?" She giggles. Mind swirling with images of basted capons and roast pigs with apples in their mouths. Human food that reminds her of that banquet at the Zoo—and its guests. Their blood had tasted of the foods spread on the long white tables—ladyfingers, éclairs, glazed fruits and sweet scintillating terror.

But the tastiest blood had been Joel's.

By drinking from him, Diva had imbibed all the colors of his spectrum, more intimately than Sister Saya ever had. She had tasted the iceberg of him, while Saya only saw the pure white tip sparkling in the sun.

Recalling the banquet, her succulent vengeance, Diva sighs. And the languorous sound puts her in mind of  _Solomon_.

"I want to play hide-and-seek," she says. "When will Solomon be back?"

"I'm afraid he didn't say." Nathan brings his face alongside hers, so he can smirk into the corner of her eye. "Why though, you naughty girl? Are you on some all-blonde diet tonight?"

"But you aren't a real blond."

A cackle. "Well aren't  _you_  a little kiss-and-tell!"

She smiles. "What's the point of a kiss if you can't tell, silly?"

She can tell all sorts of things from her Chevalier's kisses. James' insecurities and Solomon's emptiness. Karl's despair and Amshel's madness. Their kisses are like music, and when she tastes them, sometimes they form perfect notes in her head, perfect routes in the mapwork of their futures.

Of James crumbling to stone as he whispers her name. Of Karl crumbling as he whispers Solomon's. Of Solomon dying to the image of chainlink and Saya's red eyes. Of Amshel withering to a poisoned sword-thrust as he snarls,  _You will pay for this!_

But she can never taste anything from Nathan's kisses. He never gives them to her.

Those kisses are meant for someone else. Someone who is no longer alive to receive them.

"You have such  _lovely_  hair." Nathan sighs, moving the hairbrush in rhythmic strokes. "In my heyday, I had the privilege of courting three clans of Chiropteran noblewomen. And not one of them had hair this flawless. It's like touching something  _holy_."

"You're embarrassing me." Her smile says she loves it.

"Never be embarrassed when a Chevalier praises you. That's your due as a Queen." Nathan sweeps her hair off her shoulders, contemplative. "You know, for your upcoming Met evening, you should wear it up in a chignon this way. Show off that pretty neck. Or better yet, we can style it in Alexandre's 'apple-head'. Those are  _very_  popular these days..."

Drowsy, Diva lets him banter on. She knows it isn't her self that interests Nathan, so much as who it reminds him of.

Her mother.

There are so many questions about her that Diva has. But each time she asks, the words all blur together, so her sentences come in riddles. Other times, Diva doesn't need to ask, because she can  _feel_  how her mother must have been, in how Nathan looks at her.

The way he's brushing her hair now; it must have been a tender Afterward ritual he'd shared with his real Queen.

It is a ritual that varies from Chevalier to Chevalier. Karl likes to press grinning white fangs into her neck and hum her own song to her. James has a soft-eyed look he keeps for these moments, tinged with fear, as if one of his brothers will whisk her away. Solomon, with mischievous eyes and warm tongue-tip likes to spell delicious messages across her skin. Amshel she never dwells on too much, because her memories of him are linked to her tower, slithering at the corners of her mind like leeches she can never chase away.

Always, she can absorb her Chevaliers' auras. At first, her mind used to jumble them all together. But now, if she keeps  _still_  enough, she can tell them apart.

Nathan's is colorful. Dynamic. Spicy like chillipeppers and sweet like mangoes. But with a bitterness lacing the edges. Something ancient and poisonous that makes her think of daggers and Death. Of music, calculation and pitiless vengeance.

Karl's aura is darker. More warped. Like a sip of alcohol that turns your world hazy. Makes you see zebra-patterns in your fingerprints and rainbows in moonlit sky. There's something rancid about it too. Something that reminds her of broken dolls and shattered glass. Missing pieces that will never be whole.

Solomon's aura is similar to that. But different. His is smoother. More ethereal. Fields of blue roses and sunshine in spring. But with such an emptiness to it too. Like an artic wasteland disguised as paradise—a mirage.

James' aura is different. Solid and structured as steel building-girders. But with something so  _fragile_  to it too. Like one hard jolt would topple all the buildings into chaos. And all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put them together again.

The most complex aura is Amshel's. Like James', but like Solomon's and Nathan's too. And yet like no one's. His is heavier. Deeper. Infinite like space and thirsty like money. Full of numbers, letters, dates. A perfect calendar and cosmos.

But with something  _wrong_  about it too. Like time reversing its flow, or the universe swallowing itself whole.

In each Chevalier's aura, Diva senses echoes of her own—a hint of silvery cobwebs and laughter. But never anything solid;  _real_. It fills her stomach with such a hollow feeling.

She wishes their auras were more unified. Like Sister Saya and her Chevalier. Darkly-elegant music notes and red roses entwined in blood.

 _Complete_.

Diva longs for that same completion. That sense of  _family_.

 _If I had my babies, I_ would _feel it._

_But I don't._

Her lips flatten, anger sparking.

"Diva?" Nathan leans close, curling a strand of hair behind her ear. "What's the matter? Your face is all thundercloudy."

She doesn't answer. Only presses one hand to her belly. The silence there feels like a tomb.

"Nathan?" she says.

"Hm?"

"My Chevaliers are supposed to fulfill all my wishes, aren't they?"

"Of course, precious. That's what we're here to—"

"Then why aren't they trying harder to give me babies? They know that's what I want most. Why aren't they finding some way for me to get them?"

"Diva…" Nathan lowers the hairbrush. His face is pensive. "Diva, you  _know_  these things take time. The first step is arranging a Groom for you. But that can't happen overnight. Your Chevaliers are trying as hard as they can. They really are. Their only wish is to see you happy."

She shakes her head. "How can they make me happy, if they aren't happy themselves?"

"Aren't happy?  _Tsk_. Who filled your darling head with such nonsense? You're larger than life for them." Smiling, he takes the opportunity to switch the subject. "Have you decided which one you'll spend the weeks before your Long Sleep with? James is an absolute  _fuddy-duddy_. But he'll be at your every beck-and-call. Karl tends to get  _very_  overexcited. But there's never a dull moment in his care. And Solomon… well, he  _is_  your favorite. That boy can wring more arias from you than a  _Madame Butterfly_  encore."

"Which one I'll stay with?" Diva's brow scrunches, a half-frown. "Why can't I stay with all of them? We  _are_  family. Why do we need to keep separating?"

"Even family has to separate to fulfill their duties, Diva."

"Duty?" Strange word. Like resignation on the tongue. "So my Chevaliers' duties are to leave me on errands? "

Nathan sighs. "Their duty is to do everything to ensure your protection. To keep you safe."

"And what's  _my_  duty?"

"What?"

"Their purpose in life is to protect me. It's why they exist. But what's mine? What do  _I_  exist for?"

"Diva…"

She hates the way Nathan is looking at her. As if his glib magician's tongue can't conjure up anything to say.

She wants to rip that tongue out by the roots. Wants to shrivel up and fade into nothing.

 _Nothing_.

Like the answer Nathan's silence telegraphs.

Jerking away, she rises to her feet. "Go away, Nathan."

"Now Diva dear. There is no reason to be upset—"

" _Go away_."

Nathan sighs ruefully. Then nods. She keeps her eyes on the mirror, watching him straighten and put the hairbrush away.

But her reflection shows she is alone, long before he kisses the top of her head, and soundlessly quits the room.

* * *

Joel Goldschmidt is slammed back-first into the wall, breath escaping him in a  _whoosh_.

"Wha—what is the  _meaning_  of this? How  _dare_  you—?"

Saya's glare is as savage as the small hand squeezing his throat. "Answer my question. Did you, or did you not, detonate the apartment we were in?"

"For the last time!  _No_! I had  _nothing_  to do with it! How  _dare_  you break into my property and manhandle—"

Deceptively-dainty fingers tighten on Joel's windpipe. "I'll do  _much worse_  unless you start telling the truth."

"This—this is  _outrageous_! I will  _not_  be bullied by a common—"

"By a common  _what_? A tool? An expendable weapon?" Saya's eyes glow with red-hot fury. Behind her, Joel's two bodyguards lie in battered heaps on the floor. Haji stands over them with his arms folded, part accomplice, part sentinel. "You have lied to us earlier today,  _monsieur_. I'd advise you not to make the same mistake twice."

"I am  _not_  lying! I never gave Red Shield orders to explode your apartment!"

"Yet it  _did_. And in the ensuing debris, all evidence of those Chiropterans was conveniently wiped out. Along with the credibility of all eyewitnesses. If they claimed they saw monsters, the police would dismiss it as a symptom of shock." Her eyes narrow. "Either way,  _you_  would never be implicated."

Joel's flaccid throat swells as he attempts to swallow. "I—I admit there's a coincidence. But I never gave orders to blast  _anything_. For God's sake! We weren't even sure where you  _were_!"

"But you  _knew_  the Chiropterans would find me. You  _knew_  they'd be lured by my scent. Perhaps you were aware all along where your 'subjects' were hiding. And were just waiting for me to arrive and finish your dirty work."

Joel's eyes blaze. "We are  _fully_   _aware_  that Chiropterans are drawn to your presence—and it is your  _duty_  to exterminate them! But we had  _no clue_  where they were!" His voice rises to a strangled plea. "The explosion in that apartment could've been a  _gas leak_!"

"I smelled no leaking gas." Saya's eyes briefly meet Haji's. "Did you?"

Haji's face is like stone. "None."

"Then I  _don't know_  what caused the explosion! But it  _wasn't_  Red Shield's doing! You have  _no right_  threaten me—!" Joel's voice crumbles from indignation to pleading. "Please—let me go! We can discuss this  _civilly_ —without—without—"

"Without injuries on your part? Or without more lies?" Saya's voice is low and fluid, almost seductive. But her expression is anything but.

Joel pales, as if beginning to realize just how volatile his position is. "F-For God's sake! Be  _reasonable_. How could Red Shield detonate the apartment when we had no clue where to  _find_  you? You claimed the building was  _a tenement._ What if the explosion was caused by an electrical surge—or—or faulty wiring—"

"If it  _were_  'faulty wiring', the entire floor would have ignited. Not just one apartment. Not unless someone wired it specifically with explosives."

"B-but that makes no sense! You claimed you were only outside the apartment for  _nineteen minutes_! It would've taken Red Shield's operatives at least  _two hours_  to plant the explosives at strategic spots in your room. Then they would've exited the building—and waited at an appropriate distance until the bomb went off.  _And you would have seen them_!"

A discordant note of truth fills Joel's voice.

Saya hesitates, as if absorbing these unconsidered facts. But her fingers maintain their vicious chokehold. "If you're lying to me…"

"I am  _not_! I swear to you, Red Shield  _never_  detonated the apartment! Only a  _ghost_  would be capable of outfitting it with explosives that fast! Or—or a—"

"Or…" A sudden understanding fills Saya's voice. "…a Chevalier."

All at once, she lets Joel go. Wheezing, the man slumps to his knees, massaging his welted throat.

As if he is no longer visible, Saya turns to face Haji. "Do you think it's possible…?"

"That a Chevalier detonated the apartment to draw us out in the open?" Haji pauses, considering. "There is a chance."

"But—if that's true, then Diva could be in this city!"

"Perhaps. But if the culprit is indeed a Chevalier, he could be acting on Amshel's long-distance orders. Leading us to believe that Diva is in New York, while she causes trouble elsewhere."

Saya shakes her head. "We still can't pass up on this opportunity. We have to—"

Behind her, Joel jerkily straightens, still clutching his throat. He will have a lurid necklace of bruises come tomorrow. "You will  _not_  waste time on wild goosechases until you contain our escaped Chiropterans!"

Eyes narrowed, Saya swings to face him. Joel blanches, jerking back. For a second, Haji fears, not for the man's life, but for his expensive Persian carpet.

"What is more important to you?" she asks. "Locating the  _source_  of these monsters, or wasting time in tying up loose ends?"

"Unless you solve one problem, Saya, it will be  _impossible_  to solve the other. You  _know_  this." Despite his quavering voice, Joel manages to inject a note of authority in his tone.

Saya, Haji sees, is losing patience. Usually, that results in one thing: violence.

"Isn't the detonated apartment  _proof_   _enough_  that Diva could be in this city!"

"If she is, we will redouble our efforts to seek her. Until then, you will be held in one of Red Shield's properties. Where there are lesser chances of detonations. Or  _you_  wasting time on pointless searches!"

Saya's gaze boils. "If you're going to hold me as  _prisoner_ , I refuse to follow your orders."

Joel's face turns purple with rage. His eyes bulge until they seem ready to pop. "You break into my property, threaten my life, and now you  _dare_  to impose  _conditions_  on me!  _You go too far_!"

"I am not a hunting-dog to be put on a  _leash_!"

"No! You are  _worse_  than that! You are a  _Chiropteran_ —and no different from the monsters you kill! This organization exists only because of a tragedy  _your_   _kind_  caused. And we expect you  _rectify_  it.  _By any means necessary_!"

Saya's mouth curdles. For a moment she looks as though she might rip Joel's tongue out.

"If you did not share the same blood as the man who raised me,  _monsieur,_ " she says, irate but ominously still. "It would be painting the walls right now."

All the color drains from Joel's face. But to Haji's surprise, he holds his ground. "Killing me will  _not_  end this war, Saya! Only waste further money and time!  _You know this_!"

"I do." The words are bile, thick and bitter. "And I already have such little time as it is. But will having so-called  _allies_  make that any better? I doubt it. I  _really_  have to doubt it."

Without another word, she sweeps past the room. The katana concealed in her coat  _thuds_ heavily against the doorjamb as she passes.

Filling Haji, like her words themselves, with a strident premonition.

_Such little time…?_

_What could she mean by that?_

By the time he's followed her out, a white gust of snow has already filled in Saya's footsteps, and swallowed her fluttering black clothes like a shroud.

It is a sequence of unspoken omens, just waiting to be unveiled.

* * *

 


	10. Caesura Part III

**CW: Non-graphic mentions of sexual assault.**

* * *

**Caesura III**

* * *

Diva, asleep in bed, looks like a cherub. Wisps of hair falling across her face. Little fingers curled into the sheets. So innocent, you'd think she was poured out of Heaven's chalice.

Except for the blood dribbling down her chin.

A severed human foot— _what? She likes to drink from that cushy space between the heel and toe—_ lies beside her like a teddybear.

Watching her sleep, Nathan can't help think—despite the painful impossibility—how much she resembles her mother.

Thoughts of said mother don't usually arise on a day-to-day basis. ( _Second-to-second is the better phrase to use.)_ Nathan doesn't need to be consciously thinking of his late Queen to miss her. He just isn't the same without her.

Never has been, or can be, despite the centuries that've passed.

_And hopeless romantic that you are, you'd have it no other way, would you?_

He's sure it says something negative about him, how he still wallows like a lovesick Romeo in memories he should've forgotten centuries ago.

But who cares? His memories. His Queen.

So:  _nyah_.

Settling in the armchair, Nathan lets the storybook in his lap slip away. If he didn't know better, he'd say these fairy-stories Diva likes him to read to her— _tales of morons who trade money for beans and necrophiliac princes who kiss the lips of corpses, for fuck's sake_ —act as a trigger for remembering his Queen.

Especially the Icelandic myths. Sagas of enchanted winters, supernatural tricksters, and warrior-princesses. Torcs, dirks and blood. They never fail to remind him of his birthplace, back in Iceland.

The original mummy of  _Saya_  hadn't been discovered there for the  _scenery_ , that's for very damn sure.

One particular story piques Nathan's fancy. The tale of an exiled princess, and a prince who abandoned everything to be with her. She: beautiful, defiant, iron-willed. He: clever, devoted, impetuous. Their travels to strange lands, meeting extraordinary people. Their all-consuming love, immortalized in verse. Their families who despised all they stood for, and stopped at nothing to destroy them.

Nathan isn't stupid. He knows there's truth behind every work of fiction. When the original Joel Goldschmidt had theorized that the mummy,  _Saya_ , might retrace the genesis of mankind, the old codger hadn't been too far off.

The existence of Chiropterans, their culture, stretched so far back that it was imprinted on the very essence of legend and myth.

On the very essence of human consciousness itself.

Nathan remembers ancient Norse tales of the  _Ragnarök_ —an epic battle that wiped out all the gods and goddesses amid cataclysmic natural disasters. And he is reminded, bittersweet, of the terrible feuds that were his Chiropteran kindred's downfall. He remembers ancient Norse beliefs that the origin of life was fire and ice. And he is reminded, chuckling, how each pair of Chiropteran Queens are born with one set of red eyes, one set of blue.

He remembers other things too. How a certain self-righteous Nordic god called  _Forseti_ represented justice. And he is reminded of a favorite cousin who grew up to preside over the clan's judicature. He remembers a Nordic goddess called  _Idun_ , who was associated with eternal life, her golden apples bearing rejuvenating qualities for the gods. And he is reminded of a Chiropteran noblewoman he'd played with as a child. How she grew up to inherit a sprawling orchard, whose golden apples were served in the clan's magnificent feasts every winter, dipped in bowls of blood.

He remembers all these wonderful, tragic, whimsical things.

And is also reminded, painfully, which  _two_   _lovers_  his favorite fable is based upon.

He was alive when the first ballads were being sung.

One of them, his best-beloved, is mentioned in the book. It goes, always accompanied to a lute in his memory, something like this:

_At the door of my soul she is standing,_   
_So sweet in the gleam of her garment:_   
_Her footfall awakens a fury,_   
_A fierceness of love that I knew not…_

Each time he hums the ballad, he's assaulted by a photo-album of mental snapshots. Bright red eyes. A blue rose twined through a black braid. He hears laughter as sweet as a chorale of bells; tastes kisses that feel like an entire glittering universe. And he relives darker memories too. Clashing swords and ravaged screams. Iron manacles and blood on perfect white thighs. He re-experiences journeys through wheat fields on a galloping horse; flights across the night sky on outspread wings.

With a familiar, radiant form held in his arms.

His Queen.

And each time he succumbs to the memories, he remembers...

* * *

 

_Iceland…_

They'd taken shelter in an inn far from the best, redolent of human sweat and brewed alcohol. But, for their situation, suitable. No one would dream—least of all their hunters—that such a low establishment was hideaway to a Chiropteran Queen, or Nathan.

Except he was not called Nathan, then—his name was in a different language, and its utterance boasted a  _very_  different title. The lowborn of their land would have associated it to great marble hallways, jewels and rich beds of fur. Or, in the more recent years, following the brutal family feud, to matricide, revolt, and bloodshed.

It was fitting.

He was a Chevalier; a knight. And more than the subject of love ballads, knights were weapons of war.

In the dim candlelight, Nathan guarded the door while his companion removed her traveling cloak, revealing a long blue gown and a diminutive figure.

"You're certain it is safe to stay here?" Her voice was a red silk ribbon, a goblet of blood. Sultry, sustaining. He let it twine around his senses, drinking it in.

"Your sister's Chevaliers will not think to look for you here. They hate mingling with humans. They'll assume it's the same for you."

"What if they don't?"

"There's no need to worry. If they arrive, I've bribed the innkeeper to give us a warning. We can slip out through the window, and to the stables directly below us. I've ordered a boy to keep our horses at the ready. By the time they've reached our room, we will be riding north."

"I see." Her red-toned eyes were ironical. "You always seem so certain."

Nathan held her gaze, injecting into it the force of his emotion. "I will  _not_  let any harm come to you. I may not be your Chevalier by blood, but I will be so of my own free will. I will protect you until you have fulfilled your mission."

She nodded. In the glow of candlelight, she looked lovely beyond bearing. The glossy black hair, thickly-braided like a thoroughbred's; the imperious sweep of eyebrows; the painfully red lips and gold skin; all resulted in an uncommon, exotic beauty.

But it wasn't her beauty Nathan loved. It was her spirit.

She had defied, single-handed, the traditions of her rigid aristocratic clan; befriending the humans they sought to destroy. She had endured the execution of all her Chevaliers, and braved abuse and assassination for advocating harmony between both races. Forsaken, in an eyeblink, a lifestyle of luxury and power for her political beliefs.

All to travel as little more than a vagabond. An outcast.

So many nights, Nathan had watched her spirit come close to shattering. Only to resurface, each time, stronger and brighter than ever. The polished sword she wore at her side was like a deadly embodiment of her will.

Queen and warrior. Mother and lover. She was all that for him, yet so much more.

"I'm sorry for everything I put you through," she murmured now. "You gave up everything for me, only to suffer constant disgrace and hiding."

He shook his head, adamant. This was not the first time they'd had this discussion. And each time, his answer was the same.

"My only wish is to be with you. I want to help you until you've forged peace between our people and the humans. Our kinsmen will gain nothing from enslaving the human race. We both know this, even if _they_  do not."

She exhaled, bitterness creeping into her tone. "Our kinsmen aren't to blame. They only follow the laws decreed by the council. Except the council themselves are just a stage of puppets. My grandmother's Chevalier is the one who pulls the strings. In his lust for power, he's determined to tear our entire family apart. Turn mother against daughter. Sister against sister."

Nathan looked away, throat burning

He knew exactly which  _sister_  she was referring to. His blood-queen, whom he had abandoned to be with her. The same blood-queen who, a year ago, he'd sensed falling to her irreversible death, while he was on the other edge of the country.

The sensation still turned his skin to icewater to recall.

Made him all the more  _terrified_  to imagine what would happen, if he lost her sister too.

"It was your sister's Chevaliers who assassinated her," he said, barely above a whisper. "All her life, they used her as a figurehead to carry out atrocities against the humans. She was manipulated every step of the way. But after you were exiled, she began to question the council's ways. Her Chevaliers killed her because she had outlived her usefulness."

His companion sank into the narrow pallet, pressing a trembling hand to her face. "They told me she took her own life. Because of all the shame I brought our family."

" _No_. That isn't true." Crossing the room, he knelt before her, gently taking her hands. "Please listen to me. I have told you before. Your sister was impulsive, even impressionable. Like a little girl. But in her own way, she was as strong as you. She would never have done something so cowardly as taken her own life. Even after your exile, she spoke of you, wondered where you were. The other nobles were all hemmed in by tradition. But not her. She loved you far too much to forget you."

"Yet you still left her to come to me?" Her voice was choked.

Nathan pressed her hands gently. "I loved her. I will not deny it. But I couldn't love her the way I love you. I did from the first moment I met you. When we danced at your mother's banquet, do you remember?"

Her eyes were bright with tears. "How could I forget?"

He smiled, chest aching. Brought her hand to his lips, kissing the row of knuckles. "I can still see everything so clearly. You were standing alone by the long table. And there was a blue rose in your hair." He lifted a hand, letting his long fingers flutter across her temples, the pale shell of one ear. She leaned into his touch with a sad smile. "Even after our families arranged for me to become your sister's Chevalier, I never stopped loving you. I still like to imagine you felt the same."

"I did. You know that." Her small fingers, callused from scrollwork and swords, covered his. "I used to envy my sister for winning your hand. I'd watch from my window whenever she took you horesriding or strolling through the gardens with her. You were her favorite, do you know? But she had good reason to cherish you. You… were nothing like her other Chevaliers. Your brothers."

A hideous rift of memory settled between them. Nathan's eyes felt hot as embers. He knew she wasn't referring to how his brothers had manipulated and murdered her sister.

She was speaking of the Ugly Thing that had happened after her exile. When these men she shared her home with, that he shared his blood with, had dragged her down into the dungeon. And, one by one, done things to her that still curdled his blood to recall.

He had received word too late, and raced upon the scene unable to do her an ounce of good. But in the ensuing scuffle, he had killed his eldest brother. And managed to bundle her out of the territory before the guards could be alerted.

From that night to this, they had been running for their lives.

"Do you love me?" she whispered. "Even after everything that has happened? Even after all the trouble I've brought us both?"

"More with each passing day." His words were more vehement than tender. "You know I don't believe in dishonor. I never have. Our elders might say that our stars were unlucky. That these things were fated to happen. But I wouldn't blame fate so much as the will of corrupt men. None of this is your fault. You must believe that. I will keep telling you, over and over, until you do."

"Even if..." She swallowed. "Even if the children I carry aren't yours?"

Nathan followed her downswept gaze. Her belly, under the dark-blue gown, was growing with twins. They would arrive by the end of the year, or earlier. Unable to help himself, he spread his palm against the taut material. The warm flesh surged beneath, pulsing with life.

He still remembered their combined horror when she'd realized she was pregnant. Remembered how many nights they'd spent at inns not too different from this one, weeping and raging, trying to reach a solution. He'd as good as told her she must abandon the children after birth. This was no life for newborns.

It would only make her more vulnerable; only make their escapes more difficult.

But although she had agreed with him, she still refused to give them up.

 _"They are my flesh and blood,"_ she'd screamed when he tried to dissuade her. " _It doesn't matter how they were conceived. They are_ mine _. I will not abandon them."_

And Nathan, knowing from experience that nothing could sway her once she'd made her decision, had conceded.

He didn't care either, how these children were formed. Knew that if they were born, he'd love them as intensely as he loved the woman carrying them.

But that did not stop a chilling premonition from crawling down his spine.

A forewarning that, by letting these offspring of betrayal and rape survive, he was releasing the catalyst for a terrible unforeseen future.

Shaking it off, he lowered his head. Pressed his lips to the soft swell of her belly, the gown's fabric warmed by her skin. He felt the babies' pulse mingling with hers. His body pounded with tenderness for them.

"I will protect these children. Just as I protect you. You are all I have. I cannot bear to lose you."

She shut her eyes. "You were against my keeping them, at first."

"I'm against anything that endangers your life more than it already is. But if you've resolved to have these children, I have no right to argue with you. You are their mother. And because you are, I will love them." He quirked a brow, teasing. "Besides. You remember the prophecy made twenty years back? That any children you bear will be miracles? One a warrior, the other a songstress. The world will exist as a stage to showcase their beauty." He smirked. "I'm not one for respecting prophecies made by old men with hair growing out of their ears. But considering their mother's endless charms, it's not  _too_  far-fetched."

She laughed, and he delighted in the music it made. He had been hearing it so rarely as time went on. Her tiny fingers combed away the hair from his forehead. Candlight stuck two crescents in her wistful eyes.

"You've done so much for me already," she whispered. "Despite everything I've made you suffer. I'm sorry I have nothing to give you in return."

"You've given me all I'll ever need. You trust me to stay by your side. To serve you. That is more than enough."

"For now. But for how much longer?"

"For as long as you will have me." He saw the doubt wavering on her face. To allay it, he brought her hand to his lips, kissing the center of her palm. Her name slid like cinnamon off his lips. "You are my reason for being. I will do only what you wish."

"Then—" She swallowed forcibly. "Please promise me something?"

"What?"

He was startled by how clouded her face suddenly was. She held his gaze steadily, pensively, like a lost soul being ferried into the terrible underworld of Nilfheim.

Never to return.

"This time we have together is borrowed. Both of us know it, even if we never talk about it. Sooner or later, it will be over. We can only run so far before the other Chevaliers find us."

Nathan stiffened, chilled by her words. And chilled too, by the portent of what was to come.

"When that happens, please promise me something."

"Promise…?"

"Promise you will kill me with your own hands."

His fingers tightened on hers.

"Wh-what?"

Her stare was as unyielding as the chains his brothers had used to tie her up in their dungeon. "Promise you'll kill me. If we find ourselves cornered by our hunters. If there is no way out. Stab me through the chest. Pierce my heart. And as soon as my scent has faded from the body, crush the skull. That way, if my remains ever fall into enemy hands, they will not recognize me. They will keep hunting for me, thinking I am alive. It will waste manpower and time. Two resources they could be dedicating to creating armies and attacking humans instead. At least then, my death won't be in vain."

Nathan's pulse hammered sharply. The room seemed to spin round and round, only he perfectly still—an embodied  _caesura_.

"How—can you ask me this?"

"Because you are the only one I  _can_  ask." Her hands had gone moist and cold in his. "Please. I'm begging you."

He was stunned by her ghastly proposition. Her eyes remained fixed on his face, filling with tears. He could not look at them without his own welling up. When the first sob escaped her, he immediately pulled her into his arms. Frantic to calm her down, because she had endured too much pain already, and he could not stand to give her more.

He pressed his face into her hair, eyes burning. "What about the babies?"

"Watch over them, if they survive. But if they do not—if  _I_  do not—"

His arms tightened around her. The savagery in his words frightened even him. "I  _will kill myself_  if you do not survive. You  _know_  I will."

She pressed her forehead to his. Her skin was smooth; feverish. "No. Please don't do that. I couldn't bear it if you threw your life away for me."

"I would  _have_  no life without you."

"Don't say that. Don't lose hope. If I do not survive, I want you to live on in my place. I'm not asking that you forget me. But I'm not asking that you hold yourself away from the world either. That would be as good as destroying you. And I love you too much to do that."

"But not enough to  _leave me_?"

Her eyes squeezed shut. She swallowed a convulsive sob. "Please. It isn't a choice for me to make. I started this feud. I made the decision to live this way, to be hunted at every turn. But I cannot make the choice for you too. I've brought enough ruin to your life."

"I  _told_  you. That doesn't matter to me." He took her face in his hands, kissing her again and again, her salty tears mingling with his. "No.  _No_. I'm begging you. Don't ask this of me."

"I have no one else to ask.  _Please_. Just do this for me."

It was like being trapped in a nightmare. He wasn't even aware, until centuries later, how tightly he was holding her. As if they were bound together, fused in flesh and blood. And, between them, the ponderous weight of the babies. Filling him with fear, longing, with every breath.

The thought of giving them up, giving  _her_  up, was  _impossible_.

"Please," she whispered, lips brushing his. "Please promise."

The tears fell wildly then, even as he pressed his face into her hair, her neck, kissing her wherever the salt hadn't touched, wherever the candlight couldn't reach. His answer seemed to come from some secret, savage recess in him, untouched by judgment.

A place that was equal parts love and duty.

"I promise," he sobbed, the words slicing like daggers across her skin. Tearing them both apart. "I promise."

* * *

Dull-eyed, Nathan tosses the storybook aside.

Even an  _idiot_  can guess how that tale ended. Ultimately, cornered by enemies on a mountain range, the Princess begged the Prince to keep his promise. And he, bound by honor for all his brouhaha to the contrary, was impelled to put word to deed.

She died bleeding in his arms, while he screamed and screamed until the sky tore open, a massive bolt of lightning zigzagging to split the mountain apart.

Killing their enemies in an avalanche, and burying the Prince and Princess forever.

Which, FYI, actually had happened. He could never explain  _what_ that was. Karmic benevolence? Freakish weather?

Considering the way his life rolled, maybe both.

But the story concludes that, post-avalanche, the Prince died in the Princess' arms. Of a broken heart, as if Death by Shitload of Rocks wasn't bad enough.

Which is pure nonsense.

Said Prince is very much alive. Said Prince is dwelling in a pricey Manhattan hotel, sitting upside-down on an armchair with his legs dangling over the headrest and his head where a sane person would put their ass.

And said Prince is, from that day to this, still loyal to the memory of his Princess. Still fulfilling her wish.

Watching over her children.

Ironic, how the prophecy came true after all. Saya is unquestionably the Warrior; Diva the Songstress. Both as lovely as their mother, in their own unique ways.

But the prophecy failed to mention that their lives would be as  _dreadful_  as their mother's too.

Nathan blames karma. Or irony. Or cosmic stupidity. Or  _something_.

No one knows that, after the avalanche, he dug out his Queen's remains. No one knows that he hid them deep in the mouth of a cave, and visited them every ten years as if making pilgrimages to a sacred tomb. No one knows that, when humans discovered the remains, and they were shipped to Joel Goldschmidt's mansion, he was one step behind them.

Except he couldn't reach the Zoo fast enough. By the time he'd arrived, under the guise of a groundskeeper, he'd learnt, sick to his stomach, that Joel Goldschmidt had dissected his Queen's remains. That he and his assistant had removed the two cocoons from her belly, out of which, appallingly, two babies had hatched.

Enraged as this desecration made him, Nathan couldn't help but rejoice too.

He'd reached the point where he'd begun to think of himself as the only surviving Chiropteran. Feud and battle had taken all his kind, with a ferocity that was epidemical.

But now, knowing that two others shared his lineage—the  _daughters_  of his  _Queen_ —was enough to give him a new lease on life.

But his heart broke when he saw the injustice in both girls' lives. One was cordoned off like a precious ruby, brought up by a man who, though he loved her, saw her as more a prize than a person. The other was locked, by the same man, in a tower where she received as much love as a rabid dog.

Infuriated by the human's cruelty, Nathan resolved to whisk both Diva and Saya away. Keep them as his own, and explain the truth about their origins. But before the plan was put to action, Saya released Diva from her tower, on Joel's infamous birthday banquet.

The rest is commentary.

Nathan allowed himself to become Diva's 'Chevalier', when it was obvious watching from the sidelines wasn't enough. The spectator would have to play chessmaster, in order to give this tale some semblance of a happy ending. He chose Diva for obvious reasons. More damaged, more abused, more alone. Saya, however difficult her life is, at least has a loyal Chevalier—Haji—to support her.

Diva has nothing.

And Nathan is determined, by any means necessary, to remedy that.

_All she wants is a family._

_Solomon is too self-centered to see it. James is too blinded by his own fantasies of Diva. Karl is too busy wallowing in angst. And Amshel barely sees Diva as a person._

_It's up to me to get the job done._

Too bad Saya's wish isn't as easy to grant. Well, how  _can_  it be? She wants to kill her own sister. Which, all right,  _fine_ , she has a good reason to want. Joel was her father, the Zoo was her home, Diva wrecked both, blah blah, boo hoo. He  _gets_  it.

But the girl could have so much  _more_ to live for, if she'd just open her eyes and  _see_. That poor Haji's face practically reads  _Open 24-7, Use Me,_  and  _This End Up_ , for crying out loud!

Nathan suspects his plans for both girls may not go as expected. Very little in life does. But whatever the result, it's bound to start fireworks. And that's what he's looking forward to most.

After centuries of mind-numbing boredom, a man's got to get his jollies some way, right?

_I promise, my Queen, that I will find some way to make your daughters happy. And I promise not to hold myself away from the world in the process._

_I remain, even now, eternally yours._

There are some feelings, he knows, that will always transcend love and duty.

* * *

 


	11. Call and Response

 

* * *

 **Call and response:** A performance style in which the chorus imitates the singing leader.

* * *

Manhattan South on 1 Sheridan Square, revamped into a nightclub called  _The Salvation_ , is inlaid completely in red.

Seats surround the circular dance floor, a blood-colored amphitheater where patrons can watch the dancers spar like gladiators. In the dim lighting, the air is redolent of cigar smoke, spilled liquor, and expensive cologne.

Niklas, seated on a leather settee at the corner, tensely sips his strawberry daiquiri.

Suddenly, a warm hand touches his shoulder.

"Smile, wallflower. This is supposed to be a party."

Startled, Niklas raises his eyes to the speaker. Recognizing who it is, he relaxes. "Solomon."

The Chevalier, faintly smiling, settles into the seat opposite Niklas'. His hair is lightly tousled, eyes bright as if he's raced all the way here on foot. In truth, he flew. He's learnt early on that one avoids being tailed that way.

"You're late," Niklas says, an attempt at casual that instead falls into plaintive.

"I know."  _But a little lateness is good for keeping you on your toes._ "It was no intention of my own; I had business to see to." He offers his most winning smile. "Still, I am sure you can forgive me. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that…"

Niklas melts immediately, the way most people do when Solomon takes the trouble to be charming.

"Of—of course. It's all right. I suppose I was just a little... impatient."

 _Impatient?_ Amused as he is, Solomon knows better than to let it show.  _Or were you just afraid I might walk out on you?_

Knowing Niklas, it is both.

Aloud, he says, "You are so dependable, even if circumstances are chancy. That's what I like about you. And the reason I approached you for this business at all."

Niklas ignores the fine-tuned compliment. His eyes are on Solomon's mouth, the gaze less-than-subtle.

Solomon's lip curls.

 _That is_  another  _reason I approached you. And one that allows our business to proceed twice as smoothly._

"I have no patience when it comes to the only high-point of my week," Niklas says. "You know that."

Solomon smiles indulgently. He's used to being cosseted, admired, fought over. But something about his conquest with Niklas enhances the thrill. Because Niklas, so personable, so well-educated, a member of one of the world's wealthiest families—is so  _needy for him_. It is pitiful.

By himself, Niklas is urbane, self-assured. Able to get his way in anything. He is not as clever as most humans Solomon has dealt with—but he is a great deal more sophisticated. Where others can be intimidated, awed, or simply bought, Niklas' type has to be  _seduced_.

Except he has one critical weakness, and Solomon can smell it on him like a shark scenting blood.

He's in love.

Not the soulful, uplifting type—but that dark miserable one that makes you lose focus of your priorities, muddle your judgement and do  _insane_  things. The years have made Solomon a connoisseur of recognizing each brand—and using it to his advantage.

What he lacks in empathy, he's always made up for in perception.

But aware as he is of Niklas' dependency, he's also aware that Niklas has  _ulterior motives_  for wanting to be with him.

 _Ulterior motives_  that allow him to play Niklas like a puppet on a string.

Pretending insouciance, he glances around the bar. "This is an excellent location for a rendezvous, Nikki. The red interior is especially … cozy. And best of all, none of our usual acquaintances ought to run into us here. The less imaginative would suspect more obvious spots like  _The Peppermint Lounge_  or  _Adonis._ Or, had they a deathwish, _Stonewall_."

All three venues—notorious for homosexual and  _heteroflexible_  clientele—are on Solomon's Avoid-At-All-Costs list, for business meetings or otherwise. As with most such establishments in these years, they are subject to police raids. There's also the threat of plainclothesmen lurking about, ready to haul someone into court on the grounds of 'disorderly conduct', if they as much as look at another man the wrong way.

Solomon isn't too bothered by all that. In his experience, money conquers both law and social intolerance in the end. But it isn't his nature to invite untoward fuss.

In an era as volatile as this—and for dealings as risky like his—discretion is key.

"I always thought  _Stonewall_  was mafia-owned," Niklas remarks uneasily. "There are rumors flying around that it is run by the DeCurtis family. A few friends once dared me to go there for drinks with them. The crowd was…shady at best. I could barely get a seat without some fellow trying to slip acid into my pocket."

"Nonsense.  _Stonewall's_  owners are harmless entrepreneurs. Like brother Amshel or myself."

"That's not too reassuring."

An amused smirk. "Careful, Nikki. This place might be noisy, but I am still perfectly capable of hearing every word you say."

Niklas' lips twitch. "It would've been better if we met here on a weekday. The place would be... quieter."

"Not at all. The more crowded the venue, the lesser chances of being eavesdropped on, after all."

His companion winces. "That's what makes me nervous. Even in this city... people talk."

Solomon shrugs. "Not if they are tipped well enough. And one thing I guarantee, my friend. In places like these, if we see any of your acquaintances, or mine, they will be upto as little good as we. And therefore be as eager to forget they saw us here."

Niklas manages a smile. "You seem to have it all figured out."

 _Trained by experts._ "I have to look out for you whenever possible, don't I?" Waving to a waiter, Solomon orders a cognac. Reclining in his seat, he regards Niklas with half-lidded eyes. "I received your message last evening. Of the important visitor Red Shield received overnight.  _Saya_."

"Yes. I wanted to inform you as soon as I could. Keep you on guard."

"I appreciate your efficiency. But there was no need. I am a Chevalier, after all. We are  _supposed_  to know when our Red Queen has arrived. Our blood feels it, even if our minds do not register it." He tilts his head. "But how is she? I have never met Saya in person, so I am curious as to what she's like."

"You've—never met her?"

"Not once. It's not as if we travel in the same social circles, after all. Is she the awe-inspiring enigma we've heard so much of?"

Niklas hesitates. "At first glance—I'd disagree. She's nothing impressive. Skinny. Soft-spoken. Seems barely out of her teens. Nothing like the gorgon described in Joel's diary."

"I detect the unsaid 'but'."

"Well, this was my  _first_  impression. Until she lost her temper at the meeting. I-I can't describe it. One moment she was this  _girl_  refusing to take our orders. And the next, she literally seemed to fill the room. I have never seen anything like it. And as I mentioned in the message, I spoke to her personally." He pauses. "You know as well as I do, what makes a woman  _pretty_ and what makes her  _beautiful._ "

"Of course. It's all a matter of self-projection. How approachable, or unattainable, she makes herself appear."

"Precisely. But Saya is... hard to classify as either. No  _femme fatale_ , I grant. But she… made me want to keep looking at her. And once I was looking, it was hard to stop. I can't think of a time that's happened."

Solomon's smile is a silk-laced garrote. Coming from Niklas, who sees women as nothing more than camouflage to wear on his arm and project a  _wholesome persona_ , that is a compliment indeed.

"Then she is  _precisely_  as Brother Amshel described her," he says.

"Her Chevalier made me nervous, though. No matter how hard I tried, I could not tell what he was thinking. Reading his face was like staring at a blank wall." Niklas pauses, smirking. "But—if I might say so—that is  _one_  face I wouldn't mind reading deeper into."

"Ah yes. I believe he is called Haji. My big brother once showed me his pictures. He is easy on the eyes, isn't he?" Solomon chuckles. "Amshel once told me that even if Haji had nothing to his name, he had that pretty face. It might've landed him the favors of a rich countess. Even marriage to an heiress, if he'd played his cards right. In fact, the first Joel had put aside substantial capital for Saya and him, on the occasion of either of them marrying. But as I understand, he hoped it would be to  _each other_."

Niklas nods. "That capital was converted to gold and diamonds on Saya's request, following the Bordeaux Sunday. Cash is unstable, and she and Haji needed an emergency fund for the war. Only my stepfather—and every current Joel—is privy to which bank holds their fund. Along with Saya and Haji themselves." Bitterness creeps into his voice. "I, however, am not so blessed."

Solomon makes an effort to seem interested. "What do you mean?"

Niklas swirls the dregs of his drink around. "I told you earlier, how I planned to purchase a loft in Soho next month. So we could have more… privacy than we do in hotel rooms?"

"Yes."

"Well, my stepfather learnt of it. And put his foot down. In both the verbal and financial sense."

Solomon cocks his head, understanding. "He's barred you from using your trust fund?"

"Worse. He's threatening to throw me out the inheritance altogether. I'll be permitted a monthly allowance. But that's all. He says he won't settle any capital on me, not a  _franc_ , unless I 'clean up my act'. He's aware of the... activities I indulge in. Claims they're 'morally depraved'. He won't have me sullying the family name with my  _dissolute image_."

Solomon nods sympathetically, even as he's secretly sniggering. In his case, a 'dissolute image' has been a great advantage, both in his business and social sphere. People do not see him as a serious threat when they are too busy gossiping about his recent bed-hoppings and playboy lifestyle.

It lets him get away with so much. Right under their noses.

"What are you planning to do?" he asks.

Niklas exhales. "I'm not sure. To be honest, I don't give a damn. I despise my stepfather. He's never made me feel anything less than worthless. For him, I was never  _manly enough_. Never  _athletic enough_. Never  _business-minded enough_. And after my mother passed away, it only got worse. He's remarried now, you know. Has a new wife, barely two years older than myself. She's got a brat in the oven too. Eight more months, and my stepfather will have a daughter or son. Spawn of his own loins. And I'll be deemed even more unnecessary—and  _disappointing_ —than I was before."

The words resonate with eerie familiarity to Solomon's own past. His reasons for joining the Great War as a soldier. For becoming a Chevalier at all. To escape, somehow, the yawning inadequacy of  _what he was_.

He shakes it off. "I do see the problem."

Niklas rubs his temples, eyes shut. "I am not sure how much more I can take. I despise my duties to Red Shield. I despise my  _life_  here. I just—need to get away."

And there, thinks Solomon, is the  _ulterior motive_.

Well-bred boys like Niklas do not chase other boys with such lewd flagrance, unless it is to annoy their fathers. But when well-bred boys like Niklas chase men like  _Solomon_ —immortal, dangerous  _enemies_ —it isn't annoying their fathers they are after.

It is death.

Suddenly, Niklas' hand clasps his. His grip is always the same. Tense, imploring. "Solomon—when will you give me what I want? I want to take that final step for you. Drink Diva's blood. Become like  _you_. We could accomplish so much together."

Solomon holds Niklas' gaze, even as he gently draws his hand away. "All in good time, Nikki. I do not think you are quite ready yet."

"I  _am_  ready. Every moment I am in this life is  _torture_." All poise drains from Niklas' face. His voice is tight; full of despair. "Solomon, I am begging you. End this for me.  _Free_  me. How much longer must I go on?"

Those are the same questions Solomon used to ask himself as a human. But instead of feeling pity, all he sees is an opening to twist the knife. "You cannot be a Chevalier until Red Shield's alliance with the United States is over, Niklas. It is vital to our plans. Once that has been settled, you will get what you deserve."

"I have been doing my best, Solomon. You  _know_  that."

It is true. For the sake of a few hours of passionate debauchery with Solomon, for the prospect of eternity at his side, Niklas is ready to jeopardize not just his duties, but all of Red Shield's efforts.

Love really does make one foolish.

It makes Solomon glad he'll never fall in love with someone he never ought to love.

"There are... certain drawbacks to being what I am, Nikki," he says, in probably his only sincere moment in the entire meeting.

Niklas shakes his head, stubborn. "That's easy for you to say. Looking at what you are... So beautiful. So powerful. I want to be like you. Not this weak, expendable  _human_. You can't tell me you regret becoming a Chevalier? Staying mortal and watching your youth drain away?"

"Time ravages human life, true. But existing out of time the way I do…" Solomon pauses. This conversation is becoming too personal. And he is never one for revealing himself too much. Least of all to a _human_. He quickly steers them to neutral ground. "Of course I don't regret it. I would not be here with  _you_  then, would I?"

Niklas smiles. Gaze, expression, whole body, open to Solomon's presence. In that moment, Solomon realizes he has the chance to impart Amshel's orders.

Keeping his voice casual, he says, "If this is what you truly want, Niklas, I will not argue. But there are business impediments to set aside first."

"What impediments?"

The time for dilly-dallying is over. "The Special Ingredient you transferred to Red Shield's Vietnam crew. Brother Amshel wants to double the supply."

Niklas grimaces. "Can't be done. We've already sent all the necessary supplies to our teams. My father would not consent to any more."

Solomon is dismayed, but he keeps it off his face. So easy to forget, in a lapse of concentration, how much power still rests at Niklas' fingertips. How his one decision, or refusal of it, can undermine Solomon's own duty.

But, as Amshel said,  _It is the center, not the framework, you must focus on._

Solomon intends to do just that.

"Yes. I suspected so." Pausing casually, he throws the line. "Well, that's perfectly all right. I'll simply have to find another means of carrying the transfer out. I believe there is a reliable source of suppliers in Washington. I can go there to—"

"Washington?' Niklas' eyes widen. "Why do you need to go there?"

"I need to complete this transaction, Niklas. I cannot stress how much. If it is beyond your power, then—"

"But if you leave then—" Niklas hesitates, swallowing. "Our business will be—"

"Over?" Solomon feigns regret. "I am afraid so. But I have duties to Brother Amshel. I cannot—"

"I could find some way to transfer more supplies to our Vietnam team," Niklas cuts in.

Solomon pauses. "Could you?"

"Yes. Using an oversight in the paperwork, I could order another batch of supplies shipped to Vietnam. Its risky, but it could be managed."

"It would be wonderful if you could, Niklas. After all, you are in charge of this operation. It should allow you  _some_  privileges."

"It certainly ought to." Half-frowning, Niklas stares into his drink. "I'd try to keep the oversight out of my stepfather's attention. And if he does learn of it, the supplies will already have reached Vietnam, so it'd be too late to recall them. I'd just dismiss it as a clerical error and have my assistant fired. I can't stand him anyway. My stepfather only hired him to keep tabs on me."

This is far better than Solomon anticipated. He masks his triumph into a look of gratitude. "Could you do that for me?"

Niklas raises his eyes to Solomon's. "I'd do  _anything_  to keep you here. You know that."

Solomon offers his most enchanting smile. "Niklas, your generosity never ceases to amaze me. But now that  _that_  annoyance is off the table, what is it that I can do for  _you_?"

In response, Niklas curls warm fingers through his. His voice is both an invitation, and a plea. "It's too noisy here. I've booked us a room in one of the flats across the street. Perhaps we could… continue our conversation there?"

"By all means." Solomon's smirk is more fitting to a boardroom conqueror than a doe-eyed seducée. "Lead the way."

* * *

Saya proceeds swiftly through the twelve forms of her  _Iaido_  kata.

The lamplight—dim and gold—spotlights her from behind. Skin dewed with sweat; braids swinging. Her shadow is a doppelganger on the bare white wall as she pivots, slices, ducks, retreats, her sword punctuating each blow in silver flashes.

Her eyes stay closed through the entire ritual. Lost in a perfect cadence of motion and force.

Haji stands by the door, watching. She must know he is there; her blood can sense him.

But she carries on as if alone.

This apartment is a safehouse owned by Red Shield. Located on the eighth floor of a sooty building on East Eighty-Second Street. The rooms are claustrophobic; taller than they are wide. A bedroom with a rusty queen-sized brass bed. One bathroom with an ancient clawfoot tub. A narrow sitting area and a narrower kitchen space. Two rickety chairs and a table.

The stove and fridge are secondhand, the latter stripped down to its polish, empty. The walls are equally blank. No phones. No radios. Not even a television. Outside, traffic is a nebulous drone, overlapped by the  _buzz_  of electricity. A pair of loiterers at the building's front stoop—no doubt on Red Shield's payroll—keep track of the residents' ins and outs.

 _This is not a safe-house,_  Haji grimaces.  _It's a prison cell._

But on the table: a surprise. A cooler of four medical bloodpacks. Compliments of Red Shield.

Provisions for their imprisonment? Or a peace offering?

It isn't like Red Shield to take an active interest in Saya's  _nourishment_. Then again, a good businessman has no use for damaged assets. Feeding Saya is probably just a matter of expediency.

The bigger surprise, however, is  _beside_  the cooler. A glassful of blood.

At first, Haji thinks it is Saya's. Poured out in a moment of weakness, only to be abandoned when guilt sank in. But closer inspection reveals red lip-tracings along the glass' rim. An empty blood-pack lies crumpled in the wastebin.

Saya has already  _drunk_  her portion.

This has been left … for  _him_.

Stunned, Haji lifts the glass. He is not sure how to take it. It is an apology, but not quite. An implication rather than a statement.

Or is it just the proverbial Last Supper before Saya gives him the boot?

His Queen sweeps her sword up in a gleaming ellipse, then down in one powerful stroke. The killing blow. She takes a deep breath. Then straightens and returns the blade to its sheath.

Her eyes open, locking on his.

Haji still has the glass in his hand. Saya's eyes widen, then quickly drop. Pink tinges her cheeks, so faint it could be a play of light.

"I-I thought you might be thirsty," she says.

"Thank you." It sounds robotic, even to him. He has no idea what else to say. She is close enough that he can smell the sweat on her skin, feel her pulse humming beneath. For a moment, deja vu flickers. It is like seeing the Saya from the Zoo, all bright eyes and radiant smile, superimposed on this bleak fleshless figure.

Except the tang of blood is too harsh in his nose. And the rusty traces of past kills, on Saya's blade and on her skin, color the air in a macabre potpourri.

All the changes she has undergone—inside, outside—are insurmountable. Yet for him, the core of her still stays perfectly untouched. Still stirring him, a song of call-and-response without end.

Eyes averted, he says, "Perhaps you would like more blood? After three days, a half-pack is less than a slice of bread."

"It's enough for me to get by."

"Saya, there is nothing wrong with keeping yourself nourished. You needn't be ashamed of—"

"You're  _consoling_  again." The chilly undercurrent returns to her voice.

Haji sighs. It is probably best to hold his tongue for now. At least she is feeding again. Pushing Saya too far will only activate that hidden timer inside her. Erase even the smallest intimacy between them, and set her back to hostile distance.

Focusing on business, he asks, "Saya—what do you plan to do, now that—?"

She lifts a hand for silence. "I want a hot soak in the tub,  _chéri_. Finish up your drink and join me there."

_Chéri?_

He stares at her like she has sprouted a forked tongue. " _What_?"

"Please." Her voice is coaxing. But her eyes are sharp. Full of warnings.

Haji realizes she's trying to tell him something. Obediently, he drains the glass and follows her into the bathroom. There, Saya turns on the showerhead, the faucets. Hot vapor steams the mirrors. The heavy susurration of water fills the air.

Understanding, Haji lowers his voice. "This apartment is under surveillance."

It is not a question.

Saya's eyes narrow. "I'm sure it is. I can feel this  _buzz_  in the air, like at an airport. There are Minox cameras hidden behind the walls. And did you notice those guards stationed at the building steps?"

"Especially."

"They've only been put there to watch us. Red Shield must expect us to break loose."

"Do you wish to? We are less prisoners than boarders here. We can easily overpower the guards and disappear. Begin searching for Diva on our own."

"We could." She bites her lower-lip. "But the more I think about it, the more I wonder…"

"Wonder what?"

"What if it  _was_  Red Shield who detonated the apartment? As an excuse to keep an eye on us. What if there's no Chevalier at all? Surely if he  _was_  there, we'd have sensed him?"

"With a pack of Chiropterans so near? I doubt it." He studies her. "Are you having second thoughts that Diva could be here?"

"I—I don't know." Frowning, Saya turns away. "There's no simple answer to this. I want to believe she's in this city. Then again, Red Shield lured us here on a lie. Whose to say they aren't lying to us still?"

"True. But it is just as likely that Joel placed us under surveillance because we threatened him. As a way of upping the ante."

Saya nods. A strand of hair curls over her cheek, slick with sweat. Haji's fingers itch to smooth it away. "Whether it's the case or not, we need to get that power back."

"Get it back?"

"For Red Shield, it's all about control. They're treating us like indentured servants. As if without them, we'll be immobilized. But that's not true, is it? We're only allies out of necessity. I fight the Chiropterans to defend them, and in exchange, they provide us with funds. It's the same interchange of money and protection as between a prostitute and pimp."

Haji crooks a brow at the analogy. "We protect, and they pay? That would make Red Shield the prostitute, and us the pimps, would it not?"

An almost-smile flickers across Saya's lips. Then it fades. "We need some sort of leverage against Red Shield. To stop them from pushing us around."

"Do you think its wise to antagonize them further? If the board feels cornered, they might snatch  _all_  our privileges away."

Her gaze hardens. "What else  _can_  we do? You may be able to resign yourself to obeying a tyrant, Haji. But I can't."

"Resign myself?" He stares at her. "What do you mean?"

Saya turns away. He can only see her profile—the snub little nose, the perfect lips and thin line of her cheek. Her voice is tight. "You don't need to be so polite. I know—you aren't with me out of choice. I—I haven't been good to you. I've done my best to make your life as miserable as possible."

"So you assume I am with you out of—resignation?" He can't suppress the incredulity in his tone. What does it say about their relationship, that even now, she can make such presumptions about him? Can so easily devalue the quality of his feelings?

Her head snaps up, eyes flashing. "What  _else_  could it be? I've told you time and time again to go! But you  _never do!_ What else could it be but out of some enforced  _duty_? You must realize that this war is a lost cause. That  _I_  am. I'm not the Saya you knew anymore. This isn't the life either of us envisioned. But the fact that you're still here  _despite_  it—"

"Has  _nothing_  to do with obligation," he says, quiet but firm.

Saya stares at him. Face chalky, immobile.

"Saya, just because this is not the life we chose doesn't mean we give up on it.  _Or_ on each other. You keep insisting that you aren't the same person anymore. But I think perhaps you protest too much. You _are_  the same Saya. That's why you are still here. Still undoing a wrong that happened decades ago. Because you believe in doing the right thing."

Bitterness darkens her gaze. "Don't be too sure of that."

"What do you mean?"

She sighs, eyes slipping shut. Her voice is raspy. "Sometimes… I need a better reason to fight on. Because 'doing the right thing'… just isn't enough anymore."

"Not enough?"

A deep breath, as if stepping off a precipice and into an ice-floe. That same helpless plunge. "I… have this dream sometimes. Not even a dream. More like a fantasy. That I've given up on the mission and run away. Away from responsibilities and fighting. Away from the entire world."

"What?"

"You remember what Niklas said at the diner, don't you? What makes Diva and her Chevaliers so powerful? Because unlike us, they don't care about duty. They live entirely in the moment. Sometimes… I wish I were that way too. So much that I can practically  _feel_ it. Fleeing up North, where the nights go on for months. Just roving and hunting for food. Leaving a place as soon as I was tired of it, just as long as the wind's at my back. Just as long as I don't have to be what I am now."

"Saya—" Haji stares at her, unsure of what to say.

Her eyes open. Full of desperation and self-loathing, a combination that would look horrifying if the rest of her face were not so contained.

Then again, perhaps that is most chilling of all.

"I want to know how it feels like, to live without rules for once, Haji. To feel… light. Absolved. I've already caused so much suffering. It must mean that I'm evil. What difference does it make if I abandon my duty now?"

"There is another word for such a feeling, Saya. And it has little to do with duty or evil."

"Oh?"

"It's called death."

The word reverberates eerily over the rushing water.

Saya seems to absorb it into herself like a pollutant. Her mouth tightens. "That's the only reason I'm still fighting, aren't I? So I can be at peace once Diva is gone." Her eyes lock on his, painfully sharp. "But what reason are  _you_  fighting for, Haji? You aren't like me. You could have so much more to go on for. Music. Travel. I could see you becoming a famous cellist, somewhere in Europe. Going on worldwide tours. Ladies in fancy gowns slipping you their room keys after concerts—"

The words are more rueful than acidic. But that does not dispel their bite.

Grimacing, Haji interrupts, "Saya—please. Don't say such rot."

"It isn't  _rot_." She isn't looking at him anymore. But he feels the acrimony radiating off her. "You're the only one between us who has an actual future. And I—I see the way people look at you. Women. Men. There's a hundred new avenues your life could take—if only you chose."

"I  _have_  chosen, Saya. I did a long time ago."

"When? After I made you a Chevalier?"

"No…"

He can't pinpoint exactly when he forfeited his right to leave her. Perhaps it was one of the million nameless moments in the war. When he'd bled out from wounds to save her, or she'd allowed herself the penance of crying on his shoulder afterward. Or perhaps even beyond that. Perhaps it was on that faraway evening at the Zoo. When Saya held his child-self to her, over the drumroll of rain.

Whispering:

_Tell me what I can do to make everything all right?_

And she had.

With just her presence, she'd given his existence a fresh meaning. Made herself the little Sun in his orbit, with just the glow of her smile.

That smile which, no matter how hard he tries, he cannot give her back now.

The memory is enough to remind him, each time, why he is still with her.

And always will be.

Sighing, Haji looks away. "Saya—believe what you will about why I fight alongside you. But understand that I will continue to. Today, tomorrow, and as long it takes."

Saya's jaw clenches. But her voice is deceptively cool. "It's your funeral."

_Second verse, same as the first._

Shaking his head, Haji turns to go. "If you are washing up in here, then I will be outside. I should talk to the guards stationed at the door. Ask them when Red Shield will next contact us."

He starts past her.

Saya hesitates, then leans out and catches his sleeve.

Haji freezes. This is the first non-violent contact she has made with him in the past six months. He wills his pulse to stop humming, in anxiety, in excitement. Lets her draw him closer, until he stands a foot away from her.

He takes in how still she is, how she keeps her eyes shaded. Her voice is a whisper in the steamy air:

"Haji—I'm sorry. I know—you're only trying to help. Except you can't. You know this mission is hopeless as well as I do."

"It does not have to be that way unless you let it, Saya."

How many times he has said so in the past. And each time, she simply closes her eyes as if to eclipse some sight too horrific to gaze at.

"Don't make it sound so simple," she says. "It's too late for me to be clean again. Not with all the lives hanging over my head. If I'd been stronger, I would've been able to  _stop_  Diva, right from the beginning."

"Saya—" He wants to reach out, draw her in. But he knows she will resist. The only embrace he can offer is in his voice. "Please. There is no point in laying all the blame on yourself this way. The best thing we can do is stop such a tragedy from happening again."

"I know. " Her eyes open, hard and cold. She lets his sleeve go. "That's the only reason we're still here. Out of  _duty_."

She moves to turn off the roaring water. But before her hand touches the faucet, he murmurs, "Saya…"

She pauses.

"Saya, I know it is not something you credit, but we will get through this. You have an important mission to complete—and I will support you no matter where it might lead us. You never have to shoulder this alone."

Saya falters. And, as if unable to help it, turns.

Suddenly they are looking at each other, full-on, in a way they haven't done since her Long Sleep in Russia. Haji still remembers that moment with perfect clarity. The crystal snowflakes. The words forming on Saya's red lips. Telling him, full of grief and without hope, to forgive her. Begging him to keep a promise that chills his blood to envision.

A promise that still hangs between them in a cloudburst.

She gazes up at him now, eyes large and dark with pain. He inches closer, the toes of his shoes brushing hers. And, on an overwhelming impulse, gathers her slowly into his arms. She stiffens all over, breath catching. Then, as if in a tactile release, lets a soft sound work its way out of her throat. Lets her body flow bonelessly against his.

He pulls her in tight, forehead pressed to hers. Enveloped at once in the dizzying scent of her sadness, in her hot incessant pulse.

Even now, there is nothing about her that isn't full of  _life_ , or that mesmeric power. He can't get enough of touching her. Wants to stay here, suffused in her warmth, until time drips to a standstill.

"Haji," she says against his chest. "I—I want to believe you. I really do. You're the only person I can bring myself to believe anymore. Except if I did, I'd just be lying to myself. And I can't do that. I  _want_ to—but I just _—I can't—_ "

"Ssh. It's all right. You've already taken more responsibility than you ever agreed to. You have nothing to apologize to me for."

She swallows hard. Circles her arms tight around his waist. He senses that she is still resisting, and trying to stifle it. But he also senses she'd like to hold onto him for as long as she can.

So would he. There is nothing he wants more, nothing else that so fills him with terrible unquenched longing.

But she will never allow it. There are duties to carry out. Perimeters of the apartment to survey, Chiropterans to hunt, and a long battle ahead. This war has warped their entire world. Imbued it with so many changes he's longer sure which direction the Earth revolves in anymore.

On cue, Saya gently pushes his hands away. Retreats a step, eyes on the floor. He can feel her gathering herself, putting the permafrosted armor back on.

She does not look at him again, as he turns regretfully on his heel and goes out the door.

* * *

 


	12. Stringendo

**CW: Graphic depictions of gore.**

* * *

**Stringendo:** to tighten/ to gradually play faster.

* * *

Next morning, at Joel Goldschmidt's townhouse, the stern butler takes their coats. And, without another attempt to confiscate their weapons, ushers them into the parlor.

In the stained-glass glow of lamplight, a surprise awaits.

A familiar man in a black suit—a man they have not seen in over fourteen months.

"Well well. If it isn't our katana-chopping Yoko and her longhaired Lennon."

Saya's eyes widen. "David."

The senior operative nods in greeting. Square-jawed and grim, with an imposing bone-structure and close-cropped gray hair, he cuts an incongruous figure in the decorative parlor. But his expression is pleasant. Avuncular.

"I caught the earliest flight from Vietnam," he says. "Got here as fast as I could."

"Vietnam?" Haji raises an eyebrow. "I heard you'd stepped on some senior official's toes and been reassigned to Washington."

"I was. Where I stepped on  _more_  toes and got hauled off to Saigon. Red Shield's assisting US soldiers from the  _Tomahawks_  division against Chiropterans there. Between warming our hands with C4 explosives and listening to cheerful Claymore mines, our unit is lending a hand."

"So what are you doing here?" Saya asks.

"Joel sent for me to assist you. That, and I heard through the grapevine that he was giving you shit."

"Is that what Joel told you?"

"No. Joel's message stated to get here and chew you a new one because  _you_  were giving  _him_ shit." He shrugs. "I read between the lines."

Saya and Haji offer imperceptible smiles. The brief exchange is like a handshake.

Haji has known David since his earliest years in Red Shield, back when the man was a brash rookie of about twenty-four. After a shaky start, the two had formed a strong rapport. Both were experts of their own field; silently but intensely focused on the mission, with no tolerance for anything except single-track devotions. Over the years, they had been paired off for a myriad of assignments—both during Saya's Awakening, and otherwise.

As time went on, Haji had watched David mature, get married, have a son. Through him, he had experienced, second-hand, all the erosions and frailties of human life, while he himself remained perfectly untouched—a testament to both the power and cruelty of immortality.

It was a sad truth, knowing that one day, David too would pass on.

Unless, of course, some Chiropteran killed him first.

"I received reports that you fought three Chiropterans in Alphabet City." David adds now. "After which your room went—" He raises his hands to mime the explosion.

Saya grunts, inelegant but expressive.

"You think a Chevalier was behind it?"

"Either that, or Red Shield themselves." Saya watches David's face coolly, as if he might betray some hint of being in on the conspiracy.

But David's gaze conveys confusion. "Tempting as it is, I'd think twice before pointing fingers at Red Shield. The whole pattern seems off."

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it. No operative could string an apartment with explosives that quick. And there's a recklessness to the whole set-up. A  _bombosity_ , if you'll excuse the pun. It isn't Red Shield's style to broadcast their cover-ups."

"So you're saying Red Shield is completely off the list of suspects?"

"From most angles, yes."

"Oh?" Saya's eyes narrow. "Or is that what Joel ordered you to tell me?"

David shakes his head, gruff but patient. "Saya—you know I've never given a rat's ass about  _orders._  The higher-ups' bullhockey and the battlefield are two different worlds. All I'm asking is, don't let your personal dislike of Joel Goldschmidt color your judgement. You have enough enemies without conjuring up more."

" _I'm_  'conjuring up' enemies? What about my so-called  _allies,_  who lured me here on lies?"

David concedes the point gracefully. "True. But instead of vowing lifelong revenge or getting some ugly tattoo that reads 'Sleep With Both Eyes Open', you can work the situation in your favor. This doesn't have to be a BOHICA."

He has used that word around Saya before. Simply put, it means 'Bend Over, Here It Comes Again,' to allude to another unpleasant assignment.

"By the finding these escaped Chiropterans, you mean?" Saya says.

"Exactly. Because the sooner you do, the sooner you can get away from this city.  _And_  from Joel Goldschmidt's pasty face."

Haji smiles slightly. "Sounds like a plan."

"Good. Because I have news for you. We've just received intel about where the remaining Chiropterans might be."

Saya exchanges a look with Haji. "You have?"

David nods. "This is a massive city. What's worse is that it has such a complicated underground network. There's a million places the Chiropterans could be. The sewers. One of those abandoned stations at 18 or 91 ST. In an empty walk-up. Hell, even that deserted Floyd Bennett Field airport in Brooklyn."

"So where are the Chiropterans?"

"In the last place we expected." Ironic, he tilts his head. "Much as most foreigners, and a lot of Manhattanites themselves like to think, downtown isn't the only part of NYC. There are four other boroughs to pick from. And our Chiropterans aren't in the Bronx, Queens or Brooklyn, but in the most overlooked one."

"Long Island?" Haji asks.

David grimaces. "Long Island is not a  _borough_ , you asshat."

Haji frowns.  _Isn't it?_

"Which one, then?"

"The borough of Richmond. Informally known as Staten Island. Give it a few years, and I bet that'll be it's official title."

Saya frowns. "What would Chiropterans be doing there?"

"Roosting, by the looks of it. We've seen cases before. When the weather's too cold, Chiropterans find a dank, isolated area to nestle in. Hiding by day and hunting by night. As it turns out, they found an ideal place near the Witte Marine scrapyard. There are dense woods west of Rossville Avenue, where eyewitnesses have reported hearing  _strange noises_."

"How can you be sure it's not wild animals?"

"Two days ago, a group of teenagers was attacked there. Kids from New Jersey like to go up to Staten Island because the legal drinking age is eighteen instead of twenty-one. Sometimes, for cheap thrills, they explore the tugboat scrapyard and the woods around it. Smoke pot. Leave tributes of graffiti. Except this time, they ended up with more trouble than bargained for. One of them was mauled by what his friends called  _a cross between a gorilla and a cougar._ Except this interspecies lovechild attempted to drain the boy alive. He escaped with non-life-threatening injuries, and was hospitalized. His friends are unharmed, but spooked."

"You think it was a Chiropteran?"

"Positive. And it's likely that there's more than one."

Saya tilts her head, skeptical. "These details are a little specific for  _just received_ intel, don't you think?"

David spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. "I'm only repeating the information I was given, Saya. Red Shield is not tricking you into completing this assignment."

"Or maybe they are, and they're using my propinquity with you to do it."

"I got no clue what propin-whatever means. Hey, I doubt even  _you_  know what it means."

" _Of course_  I know what it means!"

"Okay. All right. Don't get touchy. My point is, if higher-ups are wangling us to suit their own purposes, then I'm in the same boat as you. Another cog being shifted to maintain their system."

"Is that what you tell yourself whenever they manipulate you? That it's for the good of their 'system'?"

"We're all soldiers in this war, Saya. We do what we have to do."

"Robots, you mean?" Her eyes flash. "And long after we're gone, there will still be people like those higher-ups making  _important decisions_ to preserve their so-called  _system_. And none of our sacrifices will have mattered. At this rate, we may as well just drop dead."

"That's one way of looking at it. But if there's one thing I've seen, both here, and out in 'Nam, it's this: a soldier who does as ordered without caring about consequences is already half-dead. But if a soldier _knows_  what he has to do and  _still_ doesn't—that soldier  _is_  dead. It's a matter of duty over fatality. Pick your poison."

Saya purses her lips. In the background, Haji hears the  _tock-tock-tock_  of a mantelpiece clock, counting out the measure of her thoughts. Difficult as David's words may be to stomach, they both know he is right.

The only objective is to keep their heads on straight and their eyes on the target.

Letting off a breath, Saya turns. "Enough chatter. We need to get to this  _Staten Island_  by ferry, don't we?"

The answer is implicit.

David smiles grimly. "Thatta girl."

"Your sad motivational speech had little to do with it." But her mouth is curled in a thin half-smile.

"Hey, I try."

"I think staying in Vietnam's made you soft."

"Not likely. You should try it sometime."

"Haji and I don't have the right faces for crew-cuts."

Haji watches her, basking in the secondhand glow of her lightness. Then Saya turns that smile on him, including him in her brief amusement like she would a friend, and he feels some deep inner-shadow lifting.

It feels like the first gasp of oxygen after hours of hypoxia.

But, as they exit the room, his humor fades.

Either that, or, considering the duty that lies ahead, the final death-rattle before permanent necrosis.

* * *

_Duty over fatality..._

_But what if your duty_ is  _a_   _fatality?_

_What do you do then?_

* * *

"What I don't get," the sandy-headed operative grumbles from the backseat. "Is why these shits couldn't assign us someplace  _sunny?_ "

At the wheel, David grunts.

"Somewhere with  _palm trees_ , y'know? And polka-dot bikinis and little parasols in our drinks?"

"Could've been worse," says a dark-haired operative. "They might've assigned us to Canada. Colder weather."

"Coulda been better," the first says. "They might've assigned us to Las Vegas. Hotter showgirls."

They tumble into guffaws.

Seated by the window, Haji watches the barren scenery roll by Arthur Kill Road, barely listening.

He is amazed by how much farmland is spread out in this borough. The average tourist's stereotype of New York City is upthrust skyscrapers and congested traffic—not acres of fields and scattered squares of houses.

Trees thicken into woodland as they drive further southward. Snow blows in thin white streaks across the roads, piling high at the edges. The horizon broadens, taking on a stark windswept air, like an enchanted forest from a fairytale. Above, patches of twilight peek from gray clouds.

It is a cold, jolting ride. Their Hotchkiss Willys jeep, supplied by Red Shield, is disastrously outmoded. The heater is broken, the shocks shot, a shattered rear-window replaced by a flapping sheet of plastic. The canvas cloth-top has a fist-shaped hole in it, blowing icy air into the interior and whipping Haji's hair into his face.

He shares the backseat with three Red Shield operatives. The first two are very young— _boys_ , he can't help but think. David refers to them as  _Bluelegs_. Grunts. Both were part of his squadron in Vietnam, which is apparent from their coded vocabulary and offhand ribbing.

The first is in his early twenties: short darkish hair, a thin beard and an affable grin. The second is older, sandy-headed and freckled, with the burly physique of a milk-fed farmboy. The third, in his mid-thirties, is sullen, sallow-faced, almost completely bald. His dogtags read  _Elvis_ , no doubt for the big sunglasses he wears. But underneath, his eyes belie a thousand-yard-stare. A combat veteran.

Saya rides up front with David, her profile directly in Haji's line of sight. He watches her push her hair back from her face, over and over, in the snapping wind. David's storm-rifle is strapped to the seat behind her.

Outwardly, their group resembles a middle-aged man taking his four sons and teenaged daughter out hunting. Except the casual atmosphere is genuine. Haji often finds it ironic that Red Shield's board— _modern,_   _intellectual gentlemen_ —have trouble working with Saya on the criticism that she is female. But the men on the frontline, despite their frequent crudeness, have lesser issues.

The risks on the battlefield tend to push sexual bias aside.

"Why'd the Chiropterans camp all the way out here, anyway?" the soldier with the  _Elvis_  moniker asks. "They like being near that stinking Fresh Kills landfill, or somethin'?"

"Eugh." The dark-haired operative pulls a face. "I'm telling you, be glad it's not summer. I hear the reek reaches all the way to high heaven like a nuclear shart."

 _Speak for yourself,_  thinks Haji. He had smelt the decay from Staten Island's trash-repository ten miles back.

"But if we know the Chiropterans are here," the sandy-haired one says, "Why not narrow out their location and Napalm 'em, like back in 'Nam? Problem over faster than you can say:  _Adios Motherfucker_."

"This isn't 'Nam," David says by way of reply, never moving his eyes off the road.

"Yeah, Lou," drawls the dark one. "Think of this as an initiation. The higher the pucker-factor in this battle, the faster we graduate from Bluelegs to Redlegs. Get some hair on our faces."

"What? Y'mean like that fungus on your upper-lip? That thing that looks like a dirty sanchez?"

"Lou. George," David snaps. "Stuff it. This isn't a goddamned field trip."

"Aw, lighten up, Officer David," George grins. "This is just a routine Zippo operation. Nothing major. You gotta think of it in terms of  _Nankurunaisa_ —not FIGMO, y'know?"

This time, Haji looks the young man askance. "Nan-kuro-nai-sa?"

"Yep. It means 'It'll all work out'. A pretty li'l  _amejo_  from Okinawa taught me that."

Beside him, Lou smirks. "She taught  _me_  a few phrases too—but not the type that bear repeating, if you catch my drift."

"I see." Haji represses an eyeroll.  _Why did I ask?_

George regards him curiously. "You ever been to Okinawa?"

"Why would you say that?"

A shrug. "The fact that you haven't said,  _'Okinawa? Where the hell is that_?' yet. So: have you?"

Haji pauses. He supposes it does not hurt to be a  _little_  friendly. "Yes. Once." On a brief stopover during Saya's Long Sleep. Miserable, the entire time he was there, because here was yet-another beautiful place he'd never get to share with her.

He looks away. "The seaside there was very—"

"Really blue, right? And the surf rolls in on the evenings. And the cooking—" George chuckles. "Man, what I'd give to settle there once this is over. Leave some kinda mark in paradise, y'know?"

"Maybe even a coupla stains," Lou sniggers.

Up front, Saya curses.

The two rookies turn to stare. "Hey come on, fruitcup," Lou ribs. "It's not  _that_ ba—"

He never finishes.

What happens next is very fast. Haji's scalp prickles. A split-second later, a gray blur appears at the right—followed by a glimpse of phosphorescent yellow eyes and sharp white fangs.

Then something  _massive_ collides with the jeep. It rocks on its faulty shocks.

Swearing, David slams the brakes hard, the vehicle skidding sideways, its rear-end slamming into the snow piled at the road's edge. A taillight shatters. The passengers are thrown forward, then back as the car skids to a halt. Haji smells rancid meat, hears claws rip wildly through the cloth-top above his head.

Then a dense weight jounces off the jeep. A four-legged creature streaks into the adjacent woods.

There is abrupt silence.

It is broken only by Lou's tense guffaw.

" _Fuck_." Beside him, Elvis shakes his head. " _Fuckin' A_. What was that?"

"A Chiropteran." Saya is already shoving her door open.

"You serious? Out in the  _open_?"

"It's her blood," Haji says tersely, climbing out after Saya. "It agitates them."

Chuckling, George follows the others out. "Like a bunch of high-school boys checking out the Prom Queen, huh?"

David is already switching off the safety on his rifle, setting the weapon for semi-automatic firing and yanking back the arming bolt. "Don't expect flowers and candy from  _these_ guys, that's all I'll say."

Armed, wary, they form a semi-circle outside the jeep, staring at the dense woods ahead. Haji's fingers feel numb from the wind cutting across the road. But at the same time, the temperature sharpens him, makes him see, smell, hear on double-time.

Beside him, Saya already has her sword unsheathed, white puffs gusting from her lips. The cold flushes her cheeks in a deceptive illusion of health.

"If one of them leapt out of the woods," she says. "Then the rest must be closeby. Let's start searching."

On either side of her, David and Haji nod. They climb together up the wide snowbank, closely trailed by Elvis and the Bluelegs. In the woods, the snow is ankle-deep, obscuring rocks, felled branches, car tires, and empty soda cans. The trees around them form a high obscuring canopy, faint glimmers of light illuminating the way.

But Haji cannot see the Chiropteran's tracks anywhere.

Bemused, they keep their eyes peeled for signs of movement. David leads the way, surprisingly sure-footed, given his age. Saya trails noiselessly after, followed by an equally silent Haji, and the brisk trio of soldiers. As they move deeper through the woods, wind rustles eerily through the trees, almost like a crooning song. But beneath that, silence weighs the air.

Everything is supernaturally still.

"This is fuckin' creepy," George mutters. His hand hovers over his shoulder-holster, as if reaffirming the M1911 pistol within. "Why's everything so quiet?"

"Maybe they knew we were coming, and evacuated in advance?" Lou drawls.

"No," David says. "He's right. It's too quiet. There should be birds shooting out of the trees. Or squirrels. They do whenever Saya's close."

Elvis shrugs. "Maybe they all flew south for the winter?"

"The  _squirrels_?"

" _No_ —I meant the—"

Before he can finish, Lou swears and lurches backward, one hand clamped to his nose. Haji blinks at the bright-red blood splashing his upper-lip.

David's eyes narrow. "What is it?"

Lou wipes his mouth with the back of a hand. "There—there's bodies nearby!"

" _Bodies_?"

"Somewhere close. Shit—I  _feel_  'em."

"What is he talking about?" Saya demands.

David sighs. "Lou has this—call it a  _quirk_. He gets nosebleeds whenever there's corpses in the premises."

" _Corpses_?" Saya asks. (The question predominant in Haji's mind is  _'Nosebleeds?')_

"Used to happen to him back in Vietnam. And yeah, your guess about  _how_  is as good as mine. The shrinks have gone nuts trying to figure it out." Shaking his head, David makes a quick sweep of the area with his eyes.

Haji knows what he must see. The interplay of twilight and shadows. The crisscrossing tangles of branches. The wide swathes of their footprints in the snow. But nothing more remarkable— _menacing_ —than that.

"What bodies?" David asks. "I don't see anything."

At his left, Saya frowns. "What's that?"

The group turns in the direction she is pointing. Fifty feet off, amid the ice-crusted trees and jagged shoots of undergrowth, a distant square structure is visible. Haji realizes it is a gray building. Its color blends with the ashen foliage. It seems unassuming—two-story, wide but plain, like a warehouse or a large garage. A tall square entranceway gapes up front, doorless, like the mouth of a cave.

"Is that...?" George squints in the gloaming. "Is that a factory or something?"

"Looks like it." David frowns. "I heard there was a pipe factory built here a few years back. But I figured it'd be razed by now."

Behind him, Lou holds a hand over his still-bleeding nose. But above, his eyes are wide, unnerved. Elvis stands motionless beside him, sunglasses lifted, staring at the factory as if still absorbing its presence.

"So…" George ventures, scratching his eyebrow. "Do we check it out?"

Before David can reply, Saya nods, already trudging through the snow. "If there really are corpses nearby, then they might be there."

"Wh-why'd the Chiropterans leave corpses in  _there_?" Elvis cuts in. "That place looks like an overgrown refrigerator."

"Therein lies its appeal," David retorts.

And the evening takes on a distinctly sinister shade—a passage played destructively  _stringendo._

* * *

Reaching the crumbling portico, Saya and Haji confirm that the structure is a factory.

Signs of abandonment are obvious. Glass panes are broken, weeds sprouting between cracks in the concrete. The ground is littered with corroded scraps of metal and wooden rafters. Multicolored graffiti covers the walls.

Haji blinks at several obscene drawings of stick-figures in various sexual poses.

 _Are those positions even_ possible _…?_

"Pay attention," Saya says, as if reading his mind.

Haji winces, fumbling for an apology.

Suddenly, a pungent stench hits him.

Decomposing flesh.

The humans cannot smell it. Not yet, anyway. They approach the factory slowly, David in the lead, followed by George, the bloody-faced Lou, and a leery Elvis. Their weapons are unholstered now, as if on age-old instinct.

Oblivious to the smell though they might be, even  _they_ have an innate sense of something...  _wrong_.

Saya looks around, her nostrils curdling. "Is that...?"

"I know," Haji whispers. "I smell it too."

"Smell what?" George asks. "Baked beans? Bad Chinese food? I'm pretty sure that's just Lou."

Lou grumbles something unintelligible.

"Shut it, you two," David orders by rote. He glances from Haji to Saya. "What's going on? Is there something here?"

Without answering him, Haji and Saya sidle toward the factory.

Stepping into the gaping entrance is like entering a sarcophagus. Inside, it is pitch black. But their eyes, accustomed to worse conditions, adjust quickly.

The interior of the factory is even more dilapidated than the exterior. The ground is littered with debris. Plastic bottles, tin cans, and concrete shards crunch under their boots. From gaps in the crumbling ceiling, weak streams of moonlight shoot across the darkness, lighting patches of walls and floor.

But the air has a musty, claustrophobic quality, like a hovel. Recently lived-in.

The decomposing stench gets worse.

Quickly, they narrow it out to a metal doorway in a corner—possibly a storage closet. In the background, Haji hears David call their names, and the echoing clatter of his footsteps. But both Queen and Chevalier ignore him.

Saya's hand reaches out, hovering at the closet's doorknob. But she doesn't touch it. The frission of unease on her face echoes Haji's own apprehension.

Since the disastrous Bordeaux Sunday, there are certain doors they are willing to open—and certain door they are  _not_.

This feels like the latter.

Then Saya says, "It looks sturdy. Help me."

Nodding, Haji steps back. And, in an eyeblink, hurls his entire weight against the door—just as Saya pops a side kick against it with her metal-lined boot.

 _Hard_.

With a shriek of steel on cement, the door swings open.

And immediately, that  _stench_  floods out.

Fetid.  _Overpowering_.

From his peripheral vision, Haji sees David press a hand to his mouth, groaning in disgust.

"Oh  _shit_!"

Neither Saya nor he can answer. Their eyes are fixed, in grisly fascination, on the sight before them.

The storage closet is larger than it seemed from the outside. Pipes run across its walls and ceiling, pitted with rust. Streaks of icicles hang in areas where moisture has oozed out. On the opposite side, Haji sees collapsed sections of walls, where Chiropterans can easily crawl through. The floor, like the rest of the factory, is made of concrete.

But instead of debris, it is carpeted with  _human limbs_.

Haji stares, unable to tear his gaze away. Distantly, he recalls the first time he saw a corpse as a boy. A dead woman, lying in a corner alley where he'd been begging for coins. Her eyes had been eaten out by rats, the flesh of her face grayed, sagging. The smell emanating off her was sickening.

Haji still remembers that powerful, nameless pull he'd felt then, to keep staring at the corpse. Even as horror, nausea, disbelief, had bombarded his sensorium, his eyes had remained  _riveted_  to the image.

This feels rather like that.

Only a thousand times worse.

"Christ Almighty," David says, edging closer.

The storage closet—the factory itself—is indeed a massive refrigerator.  _Of human_   _bodies_.

The floor is littered with entrails, intestines looping, bulging wetly, a gruesome purple Haji has only seen in the wake of massacres. Dark little shapes scurry in the shadows— _rats_ , a portion of his mind registers. Hard to tell how many there are—or how many  _bodies_  there are. The limbs, mangled, severed, seem to overlap one another, like a grisly necrophiliac orgy. Heads lying here, torsos there, shreds of meat stuck to pallid white bones, threaded with veins of an unnatural blue. Old bloodstains and other fluids turn the concrete a glistening black.

It is beyond revolting. It is  _unbearable_.

"Oh  _God_ ," Saya breathes.

Haji's immediate instinct is to slam the door shut and hustle her away. But even as he reaches for her, she is stepping deeper into that Larder from Hell.

"Saya!" he says.

His Queen evades his grasping hand, eyes on the cadavers. Haji realizes, in a belated crash of understanding, what she is staring at. Looped on one of the twisted arms, amid shreds of sweater-fabric, is a bracelet.

A bracelet with a red stone in the center.

A  _Red Shield_  insignia.

Blinking, Haji notices concurrent items—armbands, rings, chains—on several other corpses. And if he looks closer, he is certain he will find more.

This is no storeroom of civilian fodder.

It is a closet of  _Red Shield operatives_.

"The Chiropterans must have dragged them in here, one by one," Saya whispers. "This place is like their... winter depository."

Haji's lips flatten. "Were it summer, they would never have managed such a thing. The smell would have been unignorable. Someone would have found this place at once."

"But—" Saya's eyes meet his. "If Red Shield only _just_  received intel about where these Chiropterans were, then why are there so many operatives here? These— _bodies_  aren't that old. The blood still smells… fresh. Doesn't that mean—?"

"That Red Shield knew all along where the Chiropterans were?" Haji feels a cold swell of anger.

As one, Saya and he turn to face David. The senior operative is still staring at the carcasses, breathing through the sleeve of his coat.

When he sees their expressions, he freezes. "What?"

Saya's face darkens, lips parting to snarl—

When a grating roar and a  _scream_  cuts the silence.

Whirling, they hear gunshots erupt outside the factory—punctuated by frantic shouts of the two rookies.

"Dammit!" Unslinging his storm-rifle, David breaks into a run, Saya and Haji hot on his heels.

Arriving at the factory portico, a macabre sight awaits them.

The sandy-haired Blueleg, Lou, flops limply in mid-air. Hanging from the jaws of a Chiropteran, perched on a tree-branch like a slavering gorilla. Even from the distance, Haji can tell the man is dead. His head hangs at a grotesque angle, glassy eyes wide-open, mouth parted in a screamless drooling hole. Blood soaks his clothes, dripping to the snow in a red deluge.

Under the tree, George and Elvis already have their guns at the ready. Their bullets  _carraam_  off the Chiropteran's hide like pellets. The thunderous echo of each retort sounds through the woods.

But overlaying that, Haji hears a deeper, more unswerving rumble. It fills the air, seeming to pour from the surrounding trees. As if the woods themselves are screaming.

Haji freezes.

He remembers how there were no birds or squirrels in the woodland. He remembers how there were no Chiropteran-tracks in the snow.

_Oh no._

At the same moment, David yells. "George! Elvis!  _Get back_! The trees— _the Chiropterans are in the fucking trees!_ "

From the corner of his eye, Haji registers Saya sweeping her katana out in brilliant flash. Her eyes are closed, as if meditating a bloodthirsty path to nirvana—

Until they snap open. Murderous red.

A split-second before, from all sides, massive forms with glowing yellow eyes hurtle down—a hail of slavering dybbuk.

* * *

 


	13. Caesura Part IV

 

* * *

**Caesura IV**

* * *

Saya, chemise hiked up to her knees, showing off pale calves and a glimpse of lacy pantaloons, danced across the lakeshore, squealing as cool water splashed her bare legs.

The evening sun cast a blazing band across the water, turning the sky butterscotch yellow. Long grass swayed in the breeze, carrying the aroma of lentic vegetation and wildflowers.

Sprawled back on an elbow among the remains of their picnic, Haji kept watch over Saya's things. Her embroidered corset lay in the grass, trailed by a frothy corset cover, silk stockings and a pair of suede boots. Her dress was a separate heap of red velvet, tangled with expensive Reticella petticoats.

Tracing the pastel morsels with wishful eyes, Haji couldn't help but see them as a trail of sugarcrumbs, leading to a delicious maraschino treat.

And, even as he chided himself for his piggish thoughts, he knew he'd give  _anything_ for just a taste.

Through a cupped palm, he called, "Try not to wade too far in, Saya. I am not keen on a rescue attempt with the water that cold."

This earned him a playful splash, and a flip of her hair. "Oh, but you would do it anyway, wouldn't you? Out of your so-sacred  _duty_?"

He smirked. "I could just let you drown, then tell Joel I tried my best. You would be in no position to refute me."

She gasped in mock-outrage and flicked water at him, causing him to flinch. The damp chemise was plastered to her body, strands of hair stuck to her face. Skin wet and eyes sparkling; a delightful mix of sensuality and innocence.

Haji half-wanted time to freeze—a  _caesura_  incarnate. He couldn't get enough of watching her. Felt he could go on watching her for eternity.

Yet just doing so flooded him with guilt.

In his mind, she would always be out-of-bounds, to the likes of  _him_.

At twenty-two, he'd met enough other ladies at Joel's galas. Ladies with strategically-tailored gowns and carefully-coiffed hairdos, all éclat and calculation as they angled for rich husbands. But they never stirred this same  _fascination_  in him. A pretty face might charm him for a moment; an inviting smile or a flutter of eyelashes might spark his passing fancy.

But behind their eyes, he saw the shiny trapdoors. As if each lady was plotting a  _coup d'état_ rather than a marriage.

 _That's certainly one way of putting it,_  Joel had chuckled, when Haji told him.  _But then, that sort of thinking ought to keep you out of trouble in the future._

 _Out of other ladies' skirts, don't you mean?_ Amshel had sneered.

Haji knew that Joel and Amshel were complacent with the knowledge that he'd stay with  _Saya._ To fulfill his purpose at the Zoo— _to_   _be her friend at night_. And practicality decreed that he do as ordered—that he muster up the initiative to  _desire_ Saya, lest he incur Joel and Amshel's wrath.

But in truth, Haji needed no reason to desire Saya.

He simply did.

Just the thrill of her presence was enough. There was no lady so vibrant, so enchanting. His conversations with the others, all innuendos and coquetry, felt more like sparring matches. Always on guard for weakness. But with Saya, that pressure lifted completely. With her, he was free to confide anything, without the threat of judgment.

She accepted him—not as a penniless nobody picked off the streets; not as a ward who might inherit a prospective fortune from Joel—but as  _himself._

It was the greatest kindness Haji had ever received in his entire life.

To this day, their friendship already held the depth and dimension that later years would solidify. Though no longer in the ribald clasp of adolescence, they were as inseparable as ever. But they no longer tussled together in sight of the adults. No longer had messy foodfights and half-dressed swimming contests, or playoffs to see who could make the biggest mudcastles in the gardens. Saya stopped sneaking out past bedtime to badger Haji about why he locked his door at night; Haji knew better than to ask Saya why she preferred crocheting to horseriding during  _certain times of the month_.

Without anyone having to chastise them, they were growing up. But there were secrets they confided to each other; their language intensely coded as only best friends could make it. Joel no longer found Saya throwing a tyrannical fit when Haji was sent to town on errands, but sitting morosely in her room. He observed that, given the slightest chance, Haji would make excuses to slip out early whenever the gentlemen retired to the parlor, just to walk alone with Saya through the grounds.

The household heaved a collective sigh of relief. Saya and Haji had stopped raising cain.

But Joel took this as a sign to watch them more closely.

Haji wasn't insensible to these changes. He knew each subtle shift in manner heralded something devastating. But nor could he help himself. He was drawn to the matrix of this girl he'd grown up with. Swamped by her sweetness, her temper and caprices, infused as they all were with that pitch of exquisite vulnerability that stirred up his emotions and his protectiveness and his every lovestruck instinct.

Her tears held the power to make him the most miserable man on earth. And her smiles: the happiest.

Yet the more intensely he desired her—the more  _imperative_  it seemed to keep his distance. As if obeying Joel and Amshel's sordid orders was like taking advantage of her.

As if it would devalue how he felt.

He told himself, in moments of needling anguish not unlike this, that he was being idiotic. If he put his mind to it, he could cross that psychological threshold. Take Saya's trust in him to the next level.

But inside, he knew he couldn't,  _because_ of her trust in him.

She had given him something no one else ever had—a sense of  _belonging_ , of  _home_. He wanted to be equal to her expectations—to not just do right for her, but  _be_  right for her.

To be the kind of person she might want.

To be, perhaps one day, the kind of person she might even love.

Which, unfortunately, meant no  _tasting_ —metaphoric or otherwise.

"You know," Saya said now. "Sometimes I imagine what it would be like, swimming at night under a full moon—" a mischievous smile lit her lips "—without my clothes."

Haji blinked. "What _?_ "

"Oh, don't look so  _scandalized_! Haven't you ever been tempted to try it? To strip off that itchy tweed suit and just  _let loose_? No hats, no shoes, no corsets—"

"There were no corsets in my wardrobe, last I checked," he said dryly.

She let off an exaggerated sigh. "You  _know_  what I mean! Sometimes I just wish—I could  _let go._ Without worrying if the servants might see, or—or if Joel might find out. Do something for  _myself_ , without thinking of it in relation to other people."

The longing in her gaze was palpable. Haji regarded her thoughtfully. "You are feeling restless."

She rolled her eyes. "No, Haji. I'm galumphing about in cold water so I can catch pneumonia."

He ignored the mockery. That she was restless was an understatement. He could feel, lately, a peculiar agitation about her, like a sparrow caught in a cage. These few weeks, she'd begun coaxing him on long romps around the Zoo; identical to their freewheeling childhood treks, yet different.

As if they were two ghosts transitioning from one realm to the next.

Saying a silent goodbye.

Perhaps, Haji mused in later years, Saya had sensed in her bones, the way animals sensed earthquakes, that their Golden Epoch was ending. Perhaps she'd felt the weight of the world pressing down on their slice of Eden, shriveling appleberry illusions to putrid reality.

He wasn't sure. In later years, he'd have no chance ask.

All he knew was that each day felt less like  _living_  and more like  _leave-taking_.

He hadn't known then, as he did decades later, how true the presentiment would prove. Some doors were meant to stay locked, some secrets better off hidden. The Genesis rhapsodized about the high price of Temptation and Curiosity. But how was Saya to have known this—a girl whose curiosity was far stronger than her instinct for survival?

The next morning, before Joel's birthday banquet, she would unwittingly unlock a tabooed door. And, in a whirlpooling rush, like a stopper pulled from a drain, everything around them would be swept apart, tumbling and swirling into ruin.

"Perhaps," Haji said now. "Joel will soon allow you to travel. Provided that you have a suitable escort."

Saya sniffed. "That's the  _point_! I don't want some stupid stuffy escort! Someone to tell me where to go and what not to do! That's like being free to travel the world at last—except the world  _itself_ is cooped up in a corset!"

He hid a smile. "Saya, even  _you_  have to admit there is some sense to Joel's terms. You need a guide, to a certain degree. Out there, absolute freedom is equivalent to turmoil."

"Oh, you sound just like  _Joel_!"

"No, I am quite serious. The prospect of traveling unrestricted might seem rosy to you right now. But in reality, there are some places it would be best for you to avoid."

Her eyes flashed. "Oh, of course! Foolish little girl! What could  _she_  know about the big bad world out there?"

"Saya—no. That is not what I meant!"

She scowled. Her temper was as volatile as atmospheric red sprites; set off in a twinkling. "You know, it's easy for you to pass judgments on me, because you've seen more of The Outside than  _I_  have! Joel takes you on journeys all around Bordeaux! But has it ever occurred to you that I don't stay behind out of  _choice_? I never asked to be raised with boundary walls at every step! I never asked to be so—so _stupid on purpose_!"

Placating, Haji rose. "Saya—please. I do not think of you as—stupid. Not in the least. You and Joel have been so kind as to take me in. You treat me as a member of the family. I am grateful to you for everything. In fact, I—"

"In fact,  _what_?"

"In fact—" He blushed. "In fact, if Joel  _did_  allow you to travel, I would be more than happy to show you some of the more interesting places I've seen."

She stilled. Sulky, but intrigued. Quieter, she said: "Would you?"

"Yes." He took her hand. Guided her away from the lakeshore, to settle her on the rough cloth among heels of bread, tumbled apple-cores, and dark bottle of near-empty wine that had comprised their picnic. She watched him, chemise spread around her in a white puff, face dotted with trickles.

Impossibly lovely.

Eyes averted, Haji said, "For—for example, there was a harbor town called Blaye, that Joel once stopped at. I think you might enjoy it."

"Blaye?"

"Yes. It has this enormous high-walled citadel. Joel said it was built somewhere in the Dark Ages. You can walk along the citadel walls, and see the blue estuaries and the bustling harbor several feet below. It is perfect for soaking up fresh air and sunlight—" he crooked an eyebrow "— _or_  for drowning annoying escorts without attracting attention."

Saya smiled, her white teeth like mint-candy against pink lips. Made him want to swipe his tongue across them. "What else?"

"Well…" He stirred through the highlighted compartments in his memory. "I know you do not care for cathedrals. But there is a church called Saint Michel that you might like. It is the second tallest in France. With an ancient belltower and these ornate rose-windows of peacock and emerald and red. Joel said it was where Eleanor of Aquatine married Louis VII."

"Now you're giving me a history lesson." But her eyes glowed with curiosity. "And? Where else?"

He frowned. "Joel and Amshel once let me accompany them to the Grand Théâtre de Bordeaux. That is one place you would definitely appreciate. It looks like something out of a Romanic painting."

"Oh, you mean that place where Joel wore a silk scarf and took those mother-of-pearl opera glasses to?"

"The same." He grimaced. "I never understood what those glasses were for. It is not as though you  _need_  to magnify the make-up dribbling like hot wax off the singers' faces."

She giggled and drew her legs up, the hem of her chemise riding down. Haji tried not to stare at the pale rounds of her knees, or to imagine how smooth and warm they would feel under his palms. "Even so. You got to see all that, didn't you?"

"Not—not as closely as I would like. But yes."

She sighed. The playfulness of before evaporated into gloom. "While I spent all my time cooped up in here. It's just not  _fair_!"

His attempt to cheer her up had backfired. "Saya, please. Be patient. In time, you will have the chance to travel as you want to."

" _You'll_  be with me too," she added, as if he needed reminding. "At least then, Joel will think twice before sending some pointless  _escort_  along."

"He is only concerned for your well being, Saya. It is his duty as a parent."

" _Duty duty duty_ ," she said, "Is that all you think of? Haven't you ever wanted to do something for  _yourself_? And—and not the way you want to drink the entire decanter of Madeira, or drop lemon sorbet down Amshel's trousers—" He winced, but she went on. "For instance, if we  _do_  get to travel, where would  _you_  like to go? Aren't there any places  _you'd_  be keen on seeing?"

He hesitated. It wasn't often that he found himself articulating his own wishes. His own words felt low-keyed, hesitant, like rusted flanges. "I'd—like a closer look at Paris, perhaps. To walk through its streets and observe the nightlife."

"Of where? The  _Moulin Rouge_?"

He pinched her arm, but not hard. "I am sure Paris would have greater curiosities to offer, apart from syphillis."

"Where else? Italy?"

"Yes. Why not? It would be interesting to sightsee in Florence."

"You mean  _Firenze_ , don't you?" she corrected huffily.

He shrugged. "Florence, Firenze. Waistcoat, vest. Rooster, cock …"

Saya feigned scandal. " _Haji_! Such vulgar language!"

"Vulgar?" He blinked innocently. "What is vulgar about poultry?"

They both chuckled, and Saya smoothed her dress toward her knees. "And? Where else would you want to go?"

He paused. "New York, perhaps. During a—white winter. If only to see the opera house there. Or perhaps to visit Ellis Island, where they have that so-famed Statue of Liberty."

"Oh, you mean that monstrous lady that France built for the Americans? The one that looks like this?" Saya posed with a grin, arm held high to brandish an imaginary torch, chin tilted at a queenly angle.

He smiled, "Yes, that one. Although if that statue were of  _you_ , she would be holding a passel of lilies in one hand and a rapier in the other."

"To show what?" She made a pixyish moue. "A graceful blend of femininity and strength?"

"No. To show that you couldn't garden if your life depended on it."

She swatted at him, and he ducked. Sighing, she dropped back onto her elbows, so that her breasts stood up between her pert pink-cheeked face and Haji's nervous eyes. "But Haji, what are the chances of you actually  _doing_  any of this?"

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"If all you're concerned about is  _duty_ , how will you ever want anything for  _yourself?_ "

He shook his head. "Saya—why do you always regard duty as some ghastly burden other people expect of you?"

She squinched her nose up. "Isn't it?"

"Not at all. It is simply something you do, as a matter of accepted course. Because no one else can."

"You mean to tell me you  _enjoy_  all those silly tasks Joel sends you on? Or that you  _like it_  when Amshel orders you to—" she pitched her voice excessively deep, with that  _la haute société_  accent Haji himself was so quick to pick up as a boy. " _Hurry up and fetch my coat, Haji, why are you still lollygagging about?_ —or, or, or— _Where is my cup of coffee, Haji? Pick up your feet! Time never marches backward_!"

He stifled a grin. "Saya, those are  _errands_. Little, everyday chores. Not  _duties_. And to be honest, I don't mind them."

"Of course not. And even if you did, you'd never  _say_  so. Otherwise Joel and Amshel might throw you out." She winced as soon as the words left her mouth. Her sudden flush radiated in the air. "I-I meant—"

Sensing her mortification, Haji knew Saya had spoken without thinking, as she often did. Despite the progress they'd made after their rocky first meeting, she still had trouble relating to other people without coming off as bossy and overbearing. She had never had any friends to teach her.

But in her obvious bashfulness, she also revealed, as she often did, that beneath her temperamental veneer, she could be astonishingly sensitive, breathtakingly affectionate.

"It's all right," Haji said quietly. "I know what you meant."

Saya blinked, wide eyes revealing her stymied eagerness. When she saw his vague smile, it was rewarded with one of her own set in brilliant sparkle.

"It is true that defying Joel and Amshel would make my life difficult," Haji said. "But if I  _were_  so averse to fulfilling my duties to them, I would have run away."

She tilted her head. "So leaving the Zoo  _has_  crossed your mind?"

"Yes. When I was first brought here. But never again."

"Why not?"

He shrugged bashfully, the answer self-evident. But the undertones went right over Saya's head. In the background, a peacock strutted before a peahen, plumage swept open with seductive flourish. The peahen looked off, oblivious.

Nature: anthropomorphizing his dilemma.

"Fine," Saya said. "So it would be more comfortable to obey rather than defy Joel. Even so. You can't tell me you  _like_  being under the thumb of duty!"

"Duty is what gives your life a purpose, Saya. How many people can claim to possess such a thing? Without it, existence would be all shapeless and wobbly. Like—"

"Like that fat countess we met at last weekend's party? If she took her corset off?"

" _Ugh_." Haji pinched the bridge of his nose. "Must you stick to the corset analogy? Especially in  _that_  context? I just  _ate._ "

Giggling, Saya leapt to her feet, sweeping her chemise up and over her head. Underneath she was wearing a short lilac camisole whose neckline was embroidered in flowers. The fabric was so wispy it was practically transparent.

Haji goggled like a caught fish. "S-Saya—what are you  _doing_?"

"All your talk of  _duty_  is giving me a frightful itch. I want to take a swim."

"Not— _like_   _that_?"

"Yes,  _like that_. How else? Do you think I  _bathe_  with my clothes on?"

"Saya—this—this is not proper!"

"So what? It's not like anyone can see!"

"And—and the current is too strong! You might get a cramp! Then you  _would_  drown!"

But Saya was already wading into the water. She threw a teasing smile over her shoulder—the patented Saya Special she used to make him spend his own allowance on earrings and books to bring her from trips downtown, or the one she used to coax him into leaving dead lizards in Amshel's teacup, or finishing her German lessons for her whenever the governess was distracted.

"Well then," she purred, "Why not make it your gentlemanly duty to ensure that I  _don't_?"

" _Saya_ —"

But she had already grabbed his hand, tugging him to leap down to the lake, and right in, the cold slap of the water crashing over their heads. Cold to swallow their warmth.

An eerie premonition that would emulate, by tomorrow, the flow of their lives themselves.

* * *


	14. Cédez

 

* * *

 **Cédez (Fr):** yield, give way

* * *

A scream knives the predawn silence.

Following is the  _thud_  of a body slamming against a wall—and wild girlish laughter.

Returning from his meeting with Niklas, Solomon shrugs off his coat. He ignores the dull headache that has recently been pounding behind his eyes, drifting to the window overlooking the rooftop garden.

Zigzagging flashes illuminate a familiar sight—two Chevaliers locked in combat.

James and Nathan.

Their movements are bolts of color and sound. Stifled curses, taunting catcalls. James plays the retaliator: narrow-eyed, tooth-clenched. And Nathan, the jester: sparkle-eyed, tongue-flirting.

Curious, Solomon parts the drapes. He sees Nathan dodge one of James' two-fisted blows in a blur. A mischievous hand flashes out, swatting the seat of James' trousers. Snarling, James swings for Nathan again—only to have Nathan to evade in a balletic pirouette, blond curls flying in curlicues.

Ten feet off, Diva, reclines on a garden settee, like Cleopatra on a chaise. Her laughter coils around the battling Chevaliers, fuelling their movements. Spurring them on.

Solomon smirks.

Diva so loves it when her Chevaliers fight over her. It makes her feel, as he's once heard her giggle,  _like I'm all they have left._

His smirk fades.

Somehow, her childlike choice of words never fails to disturb him.

"You're out of practice, James!" Nathan says gleefully. "I can hear all your joints snapping like rusty  _hinges_!"

James eyes blaze red. "I'll snap every damned bone in your body before I'm through!"

Unflappable, Nathan curls his hands into claws, baring all his teeth in a  _meow_! His expression, all batting eyelashes and snapping fangs, is calculated to fizzle James' famed nerves-of-steel into blind rage.

Snarling, James lunges again. Nathan dodges effortlessly, yanking James' hat off and flicking him behind the ear. Teeth gritted, James claws for the hat. And again, Nathan evades in a dancelike whirl, swinging his leg out to catch James across the ankle, sending him sprawling to the floor.

Diva laughs deliriously, clapping her hands. She wears a low-cut red velvet dress, black hair spilling over her bare shoulders. A goldilocked doll rests in her lap. The image gives her the perverse air—both devious seductress and innocent child.

Her eyes lift from the scuffling duo, settling on Solomon. She dimples, her breathy voice coaxing into Solomon's mind.

_You work too much, Solomon. Come play with us?_

Solomon smiles.

There is  _nothing_  he would love more. To cast aside the day's pressures, plunge into joyful chaos with his Queen.

But he steels himself.

He has reports to make to Brother Amshel. They cannot be forgone.

"Perhaps I will join you tomorrow," he says, aware that she can read his lips. "When things are more… private."

Diva pouts.

_I barely see you anymore. You're always out running some silly errand for Amshel._

Solomon's gaze softens. "I am sorry if I have been neglecting you. Perhaps you would give me the pleasure of taking you dancing tomorrow?"

 _Dancing?_  Diva brightens, and he knows he's earned points. His sweet Queen has been cooped up indoors far too long.  _I'd like to go dancing. I want to see fun places in this city. With lots of tasty humans. Can we do that?_

A fond chuckle. "We can do anything you wish. I will clear my schedule for tomorrow. I miss spending time with you."

It would suit him to have Diva to himself for a few hours. He can take her shopping at Fifth Avenue, buy her entire boutiques if it pleases her. Take her to one of the clubs downtown, where the lights are dim and the waiters blind, so they can coax some drunken taxi-dancer into their booth for dinner. Diva loves to scratch her nails through his hair as they sandwich the human between them, fangs latched onto either side of the victim's neck. Loves strawberry ices and scavenger hunts across the skyscrapers later, to the breadcrumb-trails of blood.

His Diva is all about candied chaos and delightful, girlish carnage. Extravagance is part of her nature, and the key to holding her attention.

And Solomon plans to use it full-throttle, to win Nathan's  _contest_.

"Tomorrow then," he says. "First thing in the morning. Does that sound all right?"

Diva offers a lovely coquettish smile. Lifting the goldhaired doll, she waves one of its tiny hands at him, like a mother coddling a baby.

Solomon smiles and waves back, nearly succumbing to the whimsy.

 _Would that I_ could _give her a baby._

_Perhaps then… she would be all mine._

"Don't count on it," a dull voice says. "Diva belongs to all of us. But at the same time, to  _none_. She will never be satisfied with only one."

Frowning mildly, Solomon turns to the speaker. "Really, Karl. Dipping into my thoughts again? And after all the times I have requested you not to?"

Karl shrugs and leans against the desk. His unexpected appearance doesn't startle Solomon. It is a game he and Karl often play, dropping in on each other without words or notice, like two boys engaged in eternal hide-and-seek.

Not quite sure who is truly hiding—or what there is to seek.

In the lamplight, Karl's pale skin glows eerily, set off by his black hair and dark-blue suit. But his face, despite the sullen look, is sweet in its natural lineaments. His mouth too, for its biting sarcasm, is soft and childlike in repose.

Indeed, the contradictions to Karl are what make him so interesting in Solomon's opinion. Fierce yet timid. Vituperative yet vulnerable.

Like with Diva, one never knows which side to expect.

He remembers how Karl seemed exactly this way when they first met. A brilliant young scientific graduate from a respected Vietnamese family, he'd caught Solomon's attention at a teahouse in Cochina. Solomon had been sent there on Amshel's orders, just before the  _T_ _ế_ _t_ festival. To find and lure back a suitable human— _of Asiatic cast_ —for the purpose of making him a Chevalier test-dummy.

Seated at a shaded corner, Solomon had studied the teahouse's patrons for hours, debating unsatisfactorily over  _this one_ and  _that_.

Until Karl stepped in. Leaving Solomon incapable of looking at anyone else.

Right from the beginning, it was obvious Karl didn't belong there. It wasn't just the  _bourgeoisie_  primness in his manner, a subdued air that clashed with the crudity around him. His whole matrix had intrigued Solomon. It was like looking at two parts of a puzzle that didn't fit. His carriage was that of a young man numbed-out by life. But his expressions were open, animated. His face was youthful, even shy. But the eyes were fierce.

Burning with a tortured will to  _live_

Karl hadn't been alone. Four men were with him; dandified weaklings as forgettable as the teahouse's patrons. From the corner of his eye, Solomon had watched Karl share drinks with them. Watched them converse bitterly about the hospital where they worked, the long hours and scrimping pay, the filth and inadequate equipment and beggars and drunks sleeping in doorways, the futility of everything.

Despair had radiated off them in waves. And Solomon, like any opportunistic predator, could almost  _taste_  it.

Karl's father, he later learnt, had been a wealthy landowner in Cochina, from the rice-growing regions in South Vietnam. At a time when the country was gripped in a fever of anti-colonial sentiment, many Vietnamese were breaking free from under France's thumb. But the landowners in Cochina, whose wealth  _came_ from French land-policies, were the most pro-French of the lot.

Consequently, Karl had grown up in a Westernized background, speaking fluent French and learning French culture. His family, in the tradition of most wealthy Vietnamese, had even sent him to France for a higher education.

Karl had left for Paris to study science under an old mentor—a progressive Vietnamese physician. From the exchange between Karl and his friends, Solomon gathered that they had been the doctor's assistants at a small private lab, whose operating budget came from investors in Paris. That they had been working on what might prove to be a cure for the  _flu pandemic_  that was then rocking the world.

Until, inevitably, the bottom had fallen out. Their mentor had suffered a stroke and passed away. Shortly after which, it was revealed that the would-be  _flu cure_  had critical effects on it's human subjects.

Following the hideous deaths of several patients, the investors were quick to withdraw their funds from the project.

Leaving Karl and his group to shoulder the damages.

Faced with joblessness, the young men were forced to return to Vietnam. After such a dire error, no respectable scientific association in France would accept them. Their records had been tarnished.

From his seat, Solomon gleaned that they were now little better than  _helpers_  at a common hospital where there was such a flux illness that no one bothered to question credentials. Learnt that many of them were planning to leave, to try their prospects in other cities.

Throughout the talk, Karl was the only one who stayed silent. From stray comments, Solomon had pieced together that Karl had nowhere to go. Like most occidental sons of the soil, he had returned home radicalized, unable to see eye-to-eye with his more conservative parents. After quarreling with his father, he had left home. But he had no other relatives to take him in. Nowhere to live. No career to speak of.

His life, from most perspectives, was at a dead-end.

As the night drew to a close, Solomon had watched Karl and his group rise with lit cigarettes and spill outdoors.

And, silent as a phantom, Solomon had followed Karl.

In an hour, he'd narrowed Karl's scent to a back-alley tavern not far from the Red River. And there, among the reek of sweat and cigarettes, the screeching cockfights and the men betting on games of  _bau cua ca cop,_ he'd seen Karl level a gun to his head.

In a game of Russian roulette.

In his years as a human, Solomon had seen these life-and-death gambles before. But always by men of bravado, made foolish by testosterone and alcohol. But Karl wasn't like any of them. Yet, given the contradictions in his nature, it hadn't been surprising.

In times of calamity, angels sang hymns. Devils snarled blasphemies.

And dying men prayed.

Except Karl had nothing left to pray to. In his eyes,  _salvation_  and  _self-destruction_ were intertwined.

Shrouded in his corner, Solomon had watched everything. The way Karl's finger curled around the trigger. The way his wrist shook. But most unnerving were his eyes. They shone with lucid brilliance. As if he had been transported somewhere else—to a Brahmanic refuge out of body and mind.

Why, Solomon wondered, would someone so full of life want to throw that gift away?

Until he remembered his own chilly years in the Great War. Remembered that the cost of survival was often the loss of faith. Reality devoured idealism, fed it into bitterness.

And he knew, instinctively, that if he let Karl remain human, that bitterness would destroy him.

A gunshot was fired that night. A body was dragged from the tavern.

But it wasn't Karl's.

By the time that occurred, Karl was standing at the riverside with a smiling Solomon. Letting Solomon's voice lure him, over the haze of cigarette smoke, into  _a new world of opportunity_...

* * *

 _"Science is such a difficult career to pursue,"_  Solomon said gently, later that night at a crowded teashop.  _"Your work cannot be taken seriously without someone wealthy to fund you._ Patrons _, if you will. But where can you find such people, at a time where disasters run amok? One never knows what will happen, from one day to the next."_

 _"I know,"_  Karl whispered.

 _"And not only is the study of science difficult. It is_ time consuming _. You throw away vital years of your life, shut away with textbooks and treatises. You spend a fortune on university fees. All in hopes of one day securing a good career. But when circumstances beyond your control snatch it away, what are your options? What do you have to fall back on?"_

Not answering, Karl stirred the noodles in his bowl.

 _"Then again, that's life, isn't it? And the scientific world cares only for your_ accomplishments _. Not if you_ almost had _an accomplishment. That's just how it is."_ Solomon sighed and took a sip of his tea.

Karl was silent.

 _"To be perfectly honest, I cannot stand such thinking,"_  Solomon went on.  _"I believe everyone deserves a second chance. An opportunity to make something of themselves. So what if your project failed? So what if most 'respectable' establishments in Europe will cringe at the thought of taking you in? Does that make the time and effort you put into your work any less? Does that mean you should let this blow slight your future?"_

 _"What do you mean?"_  Karl asked.

Solomon set his teacup aside, eyes fixed on Karl's.

 _"I mean, my friend, that this tragedy does not have to overshadow your life. It can still be swept aside. There is time for you. Nothing_ but _time. And I see great potential in you. Great, but smothered potential. You can make a clean break out of this misfortune."_

Karl hesitated.  _"Make a clean break? How?"_

 _"By broadening your vision. By thinking outside of these narrow circumstances you are trapped in."_  Solomon leaned forward, intent.  _"There is a brilliant new direction your life can go, Karl. All you have to do is take it."_

Karl did not say anything.

But in his gaze, Solomon already had the answer.

* * *

In later years, Karl would accuse Solomon of tricking him into becoming a Chevalier. On the pretext of  _progress_ , Karl was made to endure Amshel's agonizing experiments. Stripped, fiber by fiber, of his very sanity.

And Karl blamed Solomon for it.

But Solomon knew he hadn't chosen Karl to hurt him. He'd done it to  _save_  him.

In Karl's eyes, he had seen a part of himself he had lost long ago.

A part he  _desperately_  wanted to preserve.

And for that, Diva's blood was the seal.

Over the years, out of necessity if not preference, Karl had accepted his lot in life. And, in his own fashion, forgiven Solomon. Loath as he was to admit it, by becoming a Chevalier, Karl  _had_  seen a new world of possibility. By serving Diva, becoming Solomon's blood-brother, he had found, if not happiness, then at least kinship.

But despite his and Solomon's sensory excesses, they were as aimless as they'd been when human.

Two poisoned drinking-companions, sipping from the same fount of despair.

"I do not have imagine where  _you_ have been," Karl says now.

"Imagine? Why Karl—I wasn't aware you cared enough to imagine about my whereabouts."

Karl ignores his lilting irony. "You reek of that  _human_. Disgusting. How does Diva let you kiss her with that mouth?"

"We both know Diva is far from fastidious. Humans are meals and toys for her. Which is as it  _should_  be."

"I've never heard of a  _meal_ keeping someone away the entire night."

"If you're referring to my absence,  _mamma_ , then in all honesty, I had no idea I was missed. Or is there something you needed to ask me?"

Karl's lip curls unpleasantly. "I have no wish to sing it for you like a  _ballad_."

"Sing what for me, Karl?" Solomon knows perfectly well what. But he will make Karl say it. The man has been acting twice as churlish of late. And Solomon is starting to find it tiresome.

"That human.  _Niklas_ , isn't his name? Will he really be made a Chevalier?"

"That decision is for brother Amshel to make."

"But you  _hope_ —"

"I hope for nothing, Karl. He is just a pawn in our plans. As soon as he fulfills his purpose, our liaison will be over." He returns Karl's hot glare with a cool smile. "This is what's got you so cross, hasn't it? Do you think if I beg Diva to make Niklas a Chevalier, he will replace  _you_?"

Karl scowls. "I'd have to  _belong_  to you, to be  _replaced_."

"And don't you?"

"I belong to Diva. No one else."

"Yes, we all do. But Diva, being Diva, belongs to no one. Just as you said. I suppose you could also it to mean that  _we_  will never be entirely  _hers_."

A shadow crosses Karl's face. It is an echo to the heaviness gathering imperceptibly in Solomon's own chest.

Flippancy doesn't make the words any less painful.

Diva's inability to love them is a gash that refuses to heal; a prostitution to their concepts of eternal devotion.

None of them—not James, or Karl, or Solomon—has ever recovered from its betrayal.

In the early days, all Solomon had cared for was Diva's self, and her affections, two things that were seamlessly-twined. It had shattered his illusions, realizing she'd never been his to begin with. Left him with the sensation of having lost something he'd never realized he possessed.

However much he'd fought to overcome the setback, he was never the same man again.

It was worse for Karl. He'd always felt things more deeply than Solomon. Diva was his first, his only, in so many ways. All the Chevaliers were Diva's pets. But Karl was her puppy; living only for scraps of her attention, glowing with hot delight when she kicked him.

Nothing had meant more to him than his Queen and her whims.

Imagine his agony, realizing that some things were impossible to go both ways.

Karl's eyes harden now. "Is that why you chose me as a Chevalier, Solomon? To amuse yourself with a broken toy in Diva's absence?"

 _Broken toy?_ Solomon represses a sigh. Ah Karl. The liberties he can take. "When you put it that way, Karl, it sounds unbelievably vulgar."

"I've no head left for delicacy. Amshel's experiments saw to that."

"You have no head for anything but Diva." His tone softens. "Despite everything, we both do. She will always be the center of our worlds."

Karl lets off a sneer. "Sentiment tastes rotten on your lips. The only center of your world is  _yourself_. That's why you enjoy this affair with Niklas so much, don't you? You get off on toying with other people's lives. You revel in playing God." His eyes flicker with malevolence. "It was why you conned me into becoming a Chevalier in the first place."

Solomon stiffens, but keeps his expression neutral. "I did not  _con_  you into anything, Karl. I brought you to Diva because I saw something of my old self in you. The self I wished I could save."

"And you don't see that  _self_  in Niklas?"

"I do—" _But only the frightened, lonely part I wanted to escape._  Sighing, he turns to face the window. "Karl, I understand you have misgivings about Niklas. But listen to me. Whatever your opinions, it is just _business_. It is only natural that I get close to him, to learn more about Red Shield and Saya. If you know your enemy, you will fight in battles without danger."

"You always claim it is  _unwise_  to mix business with pleasure."

"It is. Unless one man's pleasure determines the  _success_  of another man's business."

"That sounds rather like the motto of a brothel."

Solomon makes a dismissive clicking noise. "Honestly, Karl. Do not be so obtuse. A blunt confrontation with Red Shield is a tactical error. Victory is not gained by directness, but surprise. And for that, it is necessary to exploit any weakness their organization reveals to us."

Karl's tone is one of disgusted incredulity. "You can explain away  _anything_ , can't you?"

"It is the truth. Whether you choose to believe it or not. My association with Niklas is simply duty."

"Oh? Just as it was  _duty_  when you agreed with Amshel that I leave for Vietnam?"

Solomon blinks. This is a new angle. Before, he'd assumed Karl's surliness was just childish insecurity. But this is painting an entirely different picture.

"Karl," he turns. "What are you talking about?"

Karl's eyes flash, spine tensed like a cobra poised to strike. "I am talking about  _you,_ Solomon. Which is what  _all_  our talks devolve to. You claim everything you do is for duty. But it has more to do with your _personal_  wishes than anything. You have more faces than a nine-headed hydra. You'll say whatever suits you in the moment, just to get what you want. Sometimes I think  _even you_  believe your own lies."

"Karl—" It unnerves Solomon—always has—to hear him say such things. Like Diva, Karl has a talent for homing in on the very flaws Solomon glosses over. Only Karl spices it up with the intimacy of contempt.

Who can read you better, after all, than someone who is just like you?

"Karl. You are being overdramatic. There are different sides to everyone. Would you talk with Diva the way you do with Nathan? Of course not. We are all multi-faceted people. We all have different compartments in our lives which grow without intersecting." He slips his hands into his pockets, eyebrow arched. "It is like how you don that ridiculous opera-cape and mask when we are hunting at night. In that moment, you are not  _Karl_  any more than I am  _Solomon_. You are a predator searching for prey. Ruled by instinct, not reason."

Karl's eyes turn half-lidded. Almost sly. "At least I  _wear_  a mask to cover that part of me. And when I'm done, I can take it off. You  _can't_."

"Of course not. I do not hide behind masks."

The smile fades. "Don't be too sure of that."

Solomon freezes, a sick nauseous sensation creeping up from the pit of his stomach. His headache intensifies. In the distance, Diva's laughter rings impossibly clear, to the counterpoint of Nathan's bawdy jokes and James' growls.

But the room itself feels soundless. Airless.

"Karl—" He's so seized by overlapping urges—to deny, to laugh it off, to lash out—that for a moment he can't speak.

Then Karl looms in. Not touching, but near enough that Solomon can feel the heat radiating off his clothes. His voice is tauntingly low. "It is painful, isn't it, hearing the truth about yourself?"

Composure recoalescing, Solomon offers a suave smile. "Pain can be a powerful stimulant, Karl. An appetizer before the main course. It makes the eventual patching-up that much sweeter, after all."

"You never  _patch up_ , Solomon. You postpone and prevaricate until the problem gets shelved to the background. But that never works in the long run."

"How fortunate then, that we both prefer to live in the present." Serenely smiling, Solomon turns to go. His hand brushes Karl's. The other's skin feels white-hot. Karl flinches, but doesn't jerk away.

Solomon's smile deepens.

_Well well._

This is a hopeful sign indeed.

"Karl." He pauses at the doorway, not looking at him. "I meant what I said. Niklas is a pawn in our plans. Nothing else. I am leaving right now to contact Amshel. But when I come back, perhaps you will let me  _prove it_ to you. You can start believing me by  _believing_  me."

"I have nothing left to believe in," Karl says. "Neither of us does. That's why we're here at all." Then vitriol shifts, an unexpected  _cédez_. The quiet, tentative Karl reemerging to the surface. "Solomon... one thing. If you are interested in this human becoming a Chevalier, tell me straight out. Don't waste both our time out of some twisted sense of duty. Duty is… a terrible thing."

Solomon chuckles, exiting the room.

"Oh, there will be all sorts of  _terrible things_  when I get back, Karl. But none of them will have to do with  _duty_. I have had enough of 'performance under pressure' for one night."

Karl does not answer.

But Solomon thinks he sees him smile.

_Well well. This night might just prove more interesting than expected._

Now if only his  _headache_  would go away…

* * *

 


	15. Marcia funebre

  **CW: Graphic violence/gore/suicidal ideation**

* * *

 

 **Marcia funebre:**  Funeral march.

* * *

Saya's katana slices through the air—

—Connecting with the nearest Chiropteran's windpipe. Dark fluid splashes. The creature lets off a mind-juddering  _roar_. Like a lethal venom, her blood shoots into its system.

In a paroxysm of cracks, the Chiropteran crumbles.

" _Saya_!"

David's shout reaches her ears. A split-second later, a huge shape  _swoops_  behind her.

Eyeblink-fast, Saya whirls. Her sword angles sideways, deflecting the next Chiropteran's claw-swipe. The  _clang_  of steel resounds through the katana. Her bones sing in a counterpoint to scalding adrenaline.

Rows of glistening teeth snap inches from her face. Jaw clenched, Saya holds the Chiropteran off. She can see her own face reflected in the creature's bulging eyes. A striation of scars crisscrosses its body—healing wounds from its own packmates.

In most animal packs, fights over territory and mates are common. But Saya has noticed that among Chiropterans, they occur  _constantly_. Red Shield's scientists have offered various theories on why. Because the original Chiroptera's social structure was based on violence. Because, being man-made rather than natural, the Chiropterans are not socialized to hunt in harmony.

But often, Saya wonders if their viciousness doesn't stem from the  _Chiropteran_  genes—but the  _human_.

Beyond her opponent's slavering maw, she counts six other Chiropterans, circling their group.

In a practiced motion, David has dropped to one knee, elbow propped on the upraised other knee as he sights along his storm-rifle. Before the closest Chiropteran can charge, he fires in a rapid succession.

Blood erupts from the Chiropteran's torso. Each bullet jerks it back like a puppet on strings. From David's blind side, another pair of Chiropterans pounce—only to be assaulted by trigger-happy wallops of George's M1911.

The Chiropteran that devoured Lou has left its victim sprawled in the snow. Lou lies flat on his back, tongue lolling. His arms are flung bonelessly outward, as though he died in a freefall down Death's gullet.

Elvis has his gun trained on Lou's Chiropteran. Bullets strike its coriaceous hide in  _thwacks,_  barely staggering it. Beyond him, Saya can see Haji engaged in a scuffle with two more Chiropterans.  _Clang_  of cello-case on swiping claws. Bright flashes of sparks and fangs.

The Chiropterans have the advantage, of course. There are seven of them, and only three Red Shield collaborators, apart from Saya and Haji.

And they are all unprepared.

 _Seven Chiropterans in all,_  Saya calculates.

_Out of the original sixteen, Haji and I killed four out in Avenue A. And I killed one just now._

_That leaves eleven._

So where are the other four?

Abruptly, Saya's own Chiropteran lunges in. Fetid teeth snap dangerously close to her skull. She ducks, dodging a second powerful  _whoosh_  from its claws. Indeed, those claws are the sharpest she has ever seen. One of them slashes across her cheek, carving a streak of blood.

Spinning balletically, Saya strokes her palm across the sword's groove. And, two-fisted, expelling a  _scream_ , chops her blade across the Chiropteran's torso—an axe through wood.

Blood splatters in a monstrous geyser, drenching her face. The Chiropteran's spine arches on impact. Eyes snapping open, glued on her in terror.

Crystallization is a swift urticaria. Within seconds, the creature fragments. Blood colors the snow deep red.

Straightening, Saya barely catches her breath before there is a deafening  _whistle_  inches above her head.

On instinct, she flings herself facedown in the snow. A gigantic airborne shape hurtles past her. She hears the monstrous  _flap_  of batwings, feels jagged claws slice painfully across her back, before her attacker jets out of reach in a blinding gust of snow.

Hazarding an upward glance, Saya sees a pair of Chiropterans rocketing through the air _._ Their wings are outlined starkly in the silver moonlight.

Two of the missing four Chiropterans.

Like mythical dragons, they throw their sinewy heads back with  _roars._ And, wings flapping in mighty gusts, dive down on her—two falcons homing in on their quarry.

Saya rolls to the left, barely avoiding the first Chiropteran's gouging talons. The creature swoops across the snow in a white powder-storm—nearly grazing her. Screeching, wings snapping, it propels back upward, circling the area for a new opening.

But the second Chiropteran, exploiting Saya's brief disorientation, has already plunged in for the kill.

Winded, Saya rolls to the side—just in time to see an open-fanged shape hurtling toward her, wings swept out in a blur—

 _Thwock_.

A stiletto-dagger whistles through the air, stabbing the Chiropteran's eye.

Blood splatters. The creature jerks in midair, snarling. At once, its healing abilities kick in. Amid bubbling red jelly, the bloodstained dagger oozes back out, clattering across the snow.

Wings beating sharply, the Chiropteran shoots back skyward to regroup.

Leaping to her feet, Saya spares a hasty backward glance at Haji—a silent thanks—before grabbing her sword and slashing it sideways—

—Just in time to catch the  _first_  airborne Chiropteran's rebound. Her blade tears through one diaphanous wing, spewing blood. But there is no crystallization. Saya has forgotten to recoat her sword.

The blow is, however, enough to deter her enemy. The Chiropteran howls, thrashing in midair. The aftergust of its flapping wings hurls Saya back in a blinding cloud. Rolling into a crouch, she sways but keeps her balance, sword held defensively across her body.

Before the Chiropteran can lunge for her, Haji has already moved in.

The cello-case at his shoulder transforms into an instrument of carnage as he batters it across the Chiropteran's skull. With a  _crunch_ of steel on bone, the creature is flung sideways. It skids clumsily across the ground, leaving a zigzag spoor of red.

—And barely takes a moment to regroup before charging at Haji.

Her Chevalier snaps his head back, evading the oncoming  _gnash_  of fangs. And, whirling at the same time, using the torque of his body, kicks his metal-encased boot high into the creature's jaw.

There is a  _squelch_  of blood and drool. The Chiropteran reels back. But Haji gives no quarter, spinning to deliver a second crippling kick against its jaw, then a third.

The Chiropteran lurches, off-balance—

Which is precisely the opening Saya needs.

With a battlecry, she charges, her now blood-coated sword extended like a lance. In a brutal  _scrunch_  of sinew and bone, her blade sinks through the Chiropteran's chest.

It is a deep, fatal cut. Blood gushes out in pulsing streams, igniting into glittering fairydust. Wrenching her sword out, Saya watches the Chiropteran collapse in a spastic heap. The filmlike wings harden to crust, body shriveling into tufa-like debris.

But before Haji or she can rejoice on this small victory, bullets  _whiz_  through the air around them, one round nearly clipping Haji's ear. Galvanized, Saya crashtackles him to the ground. And, arms raised to shield them both from the volley, whips her head toward the source.

" _David_!  _What the hell are you doing_?"

David does not answer. He is firing in a continuous onslaught. Eyes fixed on something beyond Saya's head. Turning, she gapes at a new pair of Chiropterans—the final two of the missing four—crawling from the snowy foliage of a nearby tree.

David's bullets rebound off their pebbled skins, barely rendering damage. Rearing back on muscular hind-legs, the Chiropterans growl, one after the other—and charge.

In a flash, Saya leaps to her feet, dashing for the closet Chiropteran. Thumb pressed into her sword's groove, she lets blood flow down the channel, coloring it red—

—A split-second before she swings the weapon up and over her head, bringing it down with punishing force across the Chiropteran's torso.

There is an  _explosive_  blood-spray. The Chiropteran freezes mid-stride, as if to absorb the concussive blow. Tremors of crystallization ripple through its flesh. It hisses, sinking to the floor, crumbling—

An instant before Saya, hearing Haji's shout, drops facedown in the snow.

The dark blur of cello-case  _whooshes_  past her head. It slams into the second Chiropteran. Howling, the creature topples back. Before it can recover, Haji's silver daggers rain like mercury rivets across its flesh. The ruthless onslaught is punctuated by David's bullets, each ricochet igniting slimy red pustules.

Rolling to her knees, Saya presses her palm against the sword's curved groove, refreshing the blood-flow. And, on a silent signal from Haji, lunges with her weapon upraised, just as the storm of daggers and bullets comes to a halt.

_Shhhwwiiing!_

One arching swipe, the bright flash of metal, and the Chiropteran's head goes flying off its shoulders. The severed neck expels a hot fountain of blood, body twitching violently. The creature distorts into stone-splinters, split-seconds before Saya lowers her weapon.

Five down. Six more to go.

Breathing hard, Saya's eyes flick across the clearing. The air reverberates with echoes of bullets and snarls. At the corner, she sees George and Elvis backing away from the remaining six Chiropterans, to the polyphony of covering fire. And, nearby, though no longer visible, she can feel the presence of that lone winged monster, like a premonition in her bones.

"Dammit—there's too many of them!" David shouts over the gunfire. "At this rate, our ammo will run dry!"

 _Or my blood,_  Saya thinks, but doesn't say out loud.

Then a remark by one of the rookies—Lou—floods back to her:

_Why not narrow out their location and Napalm 'em, like we do back in 'Nam?_

Turning to David, she asks, "Do you have frags?"

Understanding alights David's eyes. If they cannot shoot down their enemy one by one, they can fry them in a single go.

Whipping a hand into his jacket, he yanks out a small olive green object with a curved pin—a M26 hand-grenade.

Whirling, he shouts to George and Elvis, " _You two—take cover_!"

At their superior's command, George and Elvis spare hasty backward glances. And, realizing what David plans to do, abandon all pretext of gunfire. Fast as they can, they scramble toward suitable areas of shelter.

David barely waits for them to reach a proper distance before raising the grenade. He yanks out the safety pin with his teeth, the striking-lever gripped tight in his palm. As he has explained to Saya and Haji on previous occasions, one has to clutch the striking lever to ensure that the grenade's fuse won't accidentally spark off.

Without warning, just as the closest Chiropteran charges forward, he flings his arm out.

The grenade sails through the air. Arcing down, it hits the snow in a white  _puff_  …

An eyeblink before a  _tremendous_  eruption rocks the woods.

The deafening  _boom_  smothers the Chiropterans' howls. The intense concussion spans outward, ripples across a still pond. The darkened woods are briefly lit up as if in daylight.

The M26 has a wounding radius of about 15 m, although its fragments can travel upto 200. However, impact on a soft surface, such as wet snowy earth, tends to absorb the overall blast.

Even so, Saya, David, and Haji, running for all they are worth in the opposite direction, are thrown off by force.

Rocks rain down as they tumble end-over-end across the ground. Coughing, but left unscathed by the initial flashburn, Saya rolls to an ungainly halt. Blinking the stars from her eyes, she glimpses the stunning fireshow beyond.

Through the miasma of smoke, the Chiropterans are shriveling and blackening in white-hot flames. The heat singes flesh and muscle clean off their bones, reducing them to hideous charred quarters. Even through the nitrate flooding the air, Saya catches the stench of burning skin.

"Shit—!" She hears David cough behind her. His eyes are squeezed shut, fingers plugged to his ears. "Smells like a tire-fire gone wrong."

Saya does not answer. Merely waits, heartbeat by heartbeat, for the smokecloud to settle. The explosion's echo still resounds eerily through the woods. Her ears ring with the aftershocks.

Shaking it off, she grabs her fallen sword and leaps to her feet. Hears the awkward shuffle of Haji and David rising behind her. As the haze diminishes, the Chiropterans' remains are visible, spread out around the explosion site. Charred into unnatural angles, many with their jaws still gaping open. The grenade's fragments have lacerated most of their torsos into reddish sludge.

In the distance, Lou's corpse, now almost unrecognizable, lies like a burnt-out ragdoll. His eyes, still open, stare right at Saya—leaping a sick frission up her spine.

Shuddering, she looks away.

Cautious, David, Haji and she venture further in. Stumps of trees and still-smoking branches litter the ground at every step. As Haji points out a pair of still-twitching Chiropterans for Saya to crystallize, David glances around the scorched vicinity.

" _George_!" he shouts, like a roll-call. " _Elvis_!"

There is a silence. Then, in a gingerly rustle, the two operatives emerge from behind a thick cluster of rocks. Both are pale and battered, but otherwise intact. Elvis has a cut lip and a purpling bruise on his forehead; George's eyebrows look faintly singed.

" _Jeezus_ , sir," he says, as Elvis and he pick their way toward their superior. "When most people toss a goddamned frag, they shout:  _'Fire in the hole_ ,' first."

"Yeah, that's the thing about combat," David mutters. "Procedure gets shoved out the window."

"Does honesty too?" Saya snaps.

Frowning, David turns. "What?"

Saya's eyes burn bright-red. "These Chiropterans. You  _knew_  they were here all along, didn't you?"

"Of course not. The intel we received—"

" _Was_ not  _what you told Haji or me_!"

David and George wince. Elvis takes a hasty backward step.

Saya jabs her sword toward the factory. "The corpses in there— _every single one of them_  has a Red Shield insignia! They were all  _Red Shield operatives_! How could they have gotten there, unless the organization  _knew_  where the Chiropterans were?"

David is perturbed. "Saya—listen. I'm as confused as you are. But one thing I  _do_  know—if Red Shield knew about these Chiropterans, they sure as hell didn't let  _me_  in on it."

"Or me," George says. The simple bluntness in his tone makes Saya stare at him. "It's the truth. We received details on suspicious activity here. Orders From The Top. That's all. If Red Shield  _is_  lying, then it's to  _all_  of us."

David nods. But Saya notices Elvis swallow.

In fact, during her outburst, he was the only operative to instantly recoil.

As if…

_As if he has something to hide._

Saya's gaze snaps to his. " _You_. Did  _you_  know there were corpses in here?"

Elvis stiffens. But with his sunglasses on, his expression is unreadable. "Wh-what're you talking about?"

Saya steps closer. "Earlier today. When we first saw the factory. You asked aloud why Chiropterans would leave corpses in there. Why would you say that, unless you  _knew_  what that factory contained?"

He shrugs. "Seemed a likely reason, didn't it?"

"But you had no reason to think Chiropterans had anything to do with it. Not yet."

"Hey, it was just a  _lucky guess_ , all right?" A bite of defensiveness creeps in.

Saya's eyes narrow. "Rather accurate for a  _lucky guess_ , don't you think? Especially considering—"

Elvis glowers. "Hey, listen. I don't give a shit what you  _think_. I'm here to do my job. Same as you. Just 'cause you got some half-cocked theory on Red Shield—"

"And the more evasive you get, the more it seems warranted."

"Hey, fuck  _off_. I don't have to put up with this." He turns to David. "Tell this bitch to get off my case."

David has the worn-out look of a man who's seen these square-offs too many times before. "Elvis, just give her a straight answer. Otherwise she'll keep asking until you lose your mind."

"No, hell. A  _straight answer_? I  _gave_  my fucking answer. And it's  _your_  job to yank this skinny cunt's leash if she—"

"Watch your mouth, you filth," Haji says with unexpected sharpness.

Elvis jabs a finger. "You stay the fuck out of this, fur licker—"

"Elvis," David says. "Enough. You're pissing these guys off. Just answer the question."

"No, hell. You're backing her up, aren't you? You think  _I_  made a deal with Red Shield?"

David exhales. "Elvis. Forget it. Just—"

"The fuck I will. You think  _I'm_  a toady for Goldschmidt? Well, let me tell you something,  _Officer_. There's not one goddamned person here who  _isn't_."

David frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean,  _you're_  kissing the higher-ups' asses too. It's not just me. That's why you're here instead of helping our guys in 'Nam, right?"

"I was assigned to assist Saya—"

"Hey, no. Bunch of shit. You came here because Joel Goldschmidt offered you an extra something for this operation, right? To keep her in line? Hey, the operation might be even  _riskier_ than Nam. But what the hell. You got money in your pocket to make up for that."

"Just one goddamn minute—" David sounds angry now.

"—And then you turn around and call  _me_ the turncoat? Pot calling the cocaine black. There's no difference between you or me. So don't go preaching to me about  _straight answers_ , when—"

"You're right" Saya snaps. "We don't  _need_  them. Not with over a dozen corpses present. They spell, loud and clear, that this assignment was  _set-up_. Red Shield didn't send us here to  _investigate_. They sent us to  _clean up_." Her eyes lock on Elvis. "And  _you_  are defending that."

Elvis glares. "Hey—you got a problem with Joel Goldschmidt. Take it up with  _him_. I'm not gonna take your—"

A sudden  _roar_  cuts him off.

Cursing, the group lunges for cover—

—An eyeblink before the last Chiropteran  _bursts_  out from the trees.

And dives for them like an avenging wyvern.

A kerfuffle of snow billows everywhere. Rolling onto her stomach, arms crossed over her head, Saya hears the  _whoosh_  of its wings. The creature soars terrifyingly close over her body. At her left, David rolls onto his back. Sighting along his rifle, he locks his arms and pulls the trigger.

Bullets rip into the air. At this distance, accuracy is limited. Nonetheless, one shot is close enough to slice the Chiropteran's flank.

The creature screeches in fury. Pivoting sharply, wings fanning out, it  _swoops_  for their group again. And again, Saya rolls to the side, barely dodging a vicious scraping talon.

She hears a sudden scuffling from one of the soldiers, a scream of " _Help—help me_!" as, before her eyes, the Chiropteran's foot-claw grabs a fistful of George's shirt.

Sweeping upward, it hoists him clean off the ground. In eerie slow-motion, Saya watches the young man—eyes wide, mouth open—dangling from the Chiropteran's claws. Rising further, further into the air, his arms outstretched in a silent plea for help.

A disembodied voice in her head moans  _Not another one._  Leaping to her feet, she grabs for one of George's hands. But the Chiropteran is too fast. Wings beating in powerful gusts, it propels higher, trailed by George's long despairing scream.

"Fuck!" Catching up with her, David aims with his rifle and pulls the trigger. But a hollow clicking noise resounds. His chamber is empty.

Stunned, David, Haji and Elvis watch the Chiropteran recede into the sky.

"Christ," Elvis says. "Christ on a  _crutch_."

Saya is already racing after their target. "We have to catch that thing before it gets away!  _Move_!"

* * *

Saya and the group run.

Run through the maze of trees and intersecting branches. Run with their eyes on the distant speck of the flying Chiropteran. Their boots kick up puffs of snow, ears pricked for echoes of George's howls.

Heart pounding, Saya grips her sword. With every second, she sees flashes of those hideous cadavers in the factory. Sees the bracelet with the red stone dangling from a dismembered wrist. Sees Lou's empty, accusing eyes.

And she hears, as if in a post-hypnotic suggestion, George's words:

 _If Red Shield is lying, then it's to_  all  _of us._

She grits her teeth.

At this point, it does not matter whether Red Shield is lying or not. Any Chiropteran that escapes these woods—any death that  _has occurred_  and  _might occur_  here—is her responsibility to prevent.

Her  _duty_.

_I can't let that Chiropteran slip from our hands._

_I can't let another person die on my watch._

Again, George's scream rings out. Eyes narrowed, Saya keys her ears toward the source. Under the thorny marquee of treetops, she can no longer see the flying Chiropteran. But her instincts impel her to keep moving, guiding her as if by an invisible cord.

Fifty feet in, the group emerges into a wide clearing. The trees thin away, the ground dropping into a barren stretch of thin-packed earth. The terrain is perfectly flat, dotted sparsely with wild weeds and debris. In the distance, stark against the snowy landscape, Saya can see two enormous gas tanks. Further out; a net of glittering lights is visible. The tugboat scrapyard.

Breathing hard, David catches up with her. "Where—where'd the Chiropteran go?"

Sword in hand, Saya glances around. The chase has broken her skin into cold sweat. Now, standing in the icy clearing, her damp skin feels chilled, muscles cramping. She fights to ignore a deeper drowsiness, just under her bones.

She  _cannot_  succumb to exhaustion.

_Not here._

Aloud, she says, "I'm not sure. Maybe we should spread out and search for—"

A faraway scream cuts her off.

The group tenses, glancing around. In a spurt of adrenaline, Saya's preternatural senses kick in. Through her eyes, the area is plunged into vivid red. Scent and sight magnified. The gray trees shimmer into a spectrum of browns. The distant tanks are crystal-clear, their concrete weathered and chipped. The scrapyard's lights jump at her in a colorful faerie constellation.

While in the sky above, the full moon is haloed by a multicolor band. Illuminating the clearing like a spotlight.

Suddenly, she sees the Chiropteran.

" _There_!"

Silhouetted in moonlight, the creature soars toward one of the gas tanks. George dangles from its claws like a limp rat. Wings fanned out, the Chiropteran lands easily on the tank's edge. Against the enormous concrete structure, it cuts a lonely sight.

But Saya intuits what it plans to do.

"It's going to fly toward the scrapyard! We can't risk it getting there! Otherwise we'll lose it for sure!"

"What're you planning to do?" David asks. "We can't shoot it down from here! We're out of ammo!"

Without answering, Saya turns to Haji. "Can you get me up to that tank?"

A nod. "If that is what you wish."

It is all the assurance Saya needs. Automatically, she steps into Haji's embrace. One arm corded tight around her waist, her Chevalier rockets up in a preternatural leap.

Wind  _roars_  through Saya's ears. In an eyeblink, the clearing, David, and Elvis fall further away.

She sees the distant gas tank looming closer, her body rising toward it, then at level with it—and then her feet touch the concrete and she and Haji are abruptly on top of the tank.

At this height, the moonlit woods stretch around them. Bitter wind whips the ends of their coats, whistling through their hair.

And the Chiropteran stands directly beyond.

George hangs from the creature's grasp, motionless. Saya can see his chest still rising and falling. He is alive, but unconscious.

Hissing, the Chiropteran turns fully to face her. In the gloaming, each muscle on its body is tense—preparing for attack, flight, or both.

Jaw set, Saya brings her sword up to bear. Thumb pressing to the groove, blood pouring across the blade. Her eyes burn red.

But before she can lunge, the Chiropteran, as if sensing her intention, snarls and flings George's body at her. Reflexively, Saya ducks under the floppy tangle of limbs. She hears herself shout, " _Haji—grab him_!"—sees her Chevalier leap down to seize George as he plummets over the tank's edge—

—Just as her own body propels into motion.

Sword upraised, Saya unleashes a piercing battlecry, charging forward. The Chiropteran ducks under her first lightning blow, countering with its long toe-claw. There is a  _whang_  and a smatter of sparks.

Darting forward, the Chiropteran snaps razor-sharp fangs for her neck. Saya feints, swinging with her sword again. The sharp tip slashes the Chiropteran's chest—a deep but non-fatal cut. Screeching, the creature lashes out with its winged arm.

A long claw tears across Saya's shoulder, spewing blood. She snarls with pain. Before she can retaliate, the Chiropteran tackles her down. Saya's breath gusts in white puffs as the creature pins her to the concrete. Teeth gritted, she staves it off with the flat edge of her sword. Putrid saliva drips onto her neck and torso. Wet fangs snap inches from her face.

A brutal kick frees her from under the creature's weight. Leaping up, she pivots with her blade again. But the Chiropteran evades in a blur. Saya notices how its body is shifting. Maneuvering so the moon is at its back, the glow hampering her night vision.

Every lineament in the creature's frame simmers—the eyes glowing with bloodlust.

All at once, a dark calm settles over her. She cannot keep up this desultory dance forever. Not unless she wants the Chiropteran to escape.

There is only one way this battle can end.

Exhaling, Saya allows her whole body to go still. Sword lowering, muscles slacking, a tangible surrender. Her eyes fix on the Chiropteran's.

Beckoning.

The creature senses her capitulation like a scent. With a deafening  _roar_ , wings swept out like a cobra's hood, it tackles her. Saya lets the terrible weight  _slam_  against her, full-on. Red lights explode behind her eyes. The bruising force jerks her back.

Simultaneously, she and the Chiropteran plunge off the tank's edge.

Wind shrieks through her ears. The concrete tank rushes past her. But even as she and the Chiropteran fall, suspended for a split-second in mid-air, Saya locks her legs and free arm tight around the creature's torso.

And, secured in a grisly embrace, stabs her sword through its heart.

_Hard._

Slimy blood and viscera splatter her body. Hot leathery flesh scrapes her cheek. Her blade embeds  _deep_  into the Chiropteran's chest, igniting a flood of reddish cracks.

The creature stiffens in mid-air, howling. Saya's grip is strong enough to contain the entire spastic force of crystallization. Wings beating uselessly, her victim crumbles—dropping like a mass of stones.

And taking Saya with it.

Falling horizontally, Saya watches the woods and sky blur together. Wind presses up against her body, clothes and hair flapping. Her stomach rises to her chest. The ground below grows larger, larger.

At this height, the impact is sure to smash her skull open. But even as she understands this, a perverse euphoria suffuses her. Closing her eyes, she no longer has a sense of falling. Rather, she is weightless, floating, blood singing a  _marcia funebre_  through her skull.

Images swirl behind her eyes: a drumhead of her existence.

A blue rose falling from an ivy-laced tower. Haji's bloody face clasped in her trembling hands. Diva's dark hair billowing in flames.

She sees the current Joel's fuming red face:  _You are a Chiropteran—and no different from the monsters you kill!_

She sees Niklas, backlit by fluorescent lights:  _We only have one life. Are we right to cut off our only happiness for the mere sake of duty?_

She sees Haji, soft blue eyes locked on hers:  _You have an important mission to complete—and I will support you no matter where it might lead us. You never have to shoulder this alone…_

 _No more,_ she thinks.  _No more._

She exists to fulfill duty. To fight and kill.

But she will never have to endure it again.

And, in a wave of relief, she sees Death's skeletal face loom in. The jagged fangs open wide, gulping her down. Tumbling through blackness, she falls amid a sea of writhing bodies. Eerie white eyes lock on hers. Withered, maggot-infested hands reach for her.

Welcoming.

_We're waiting for you…_

_It_ 's _over,_ she thinks.  _It_ 's _finally over._

And slowly, gently, the world goes dark.

* * *

 


	16. Caesura Part V

 

* * *

**Caesura V**

* * *

" _Unborn babies are affected by their environment_."

David's pregnant wife—a nurse—once told Haji this.

It was years ago, before the upcoming birth of David's son. David had been on a Chiropteran-search in South America. In his stead, he'd gruffly asked Haji, who was on an assignment in the United States, to check on his wife.

It wasn't Haji's way to do favors for comrades. But for David, just once, he'd made an exception.

David's wife had been working at a Red Shield outpost. She'd taken Haji's clipped message with a warm smile. Let him know she was fine, and that the baby wasn't due for another six weeks. Then, much to Haji's consternation, she'd placed his hand on her belly, to let him feel the baby kicking.

Haji's knee-jerk reaction was to recoil. He'd always felt queasy around pregnant women. It unnerved him, knowing there was  _someone_  living inside them. Feeding off their bodies like a symbiote.

But as he'd suppressed his unease, curiosity had intruded. To his heightened senses, the baby's heartbeat was magnified like an ultrasound. A little life, curled in the womb, safe in its own bubble of silence.

It had reminded him, oddly, of Saya, asleep in her cocoon. Lying in her protective shelling, oblivious to the chaos around her. Not knowing that there were countless people who always hovered nearby, asking,  _so when will the big day arrive?_   _When will we see you with our own eyes?_

Haji imagined that a parent's anticipation at having the baby must be similar to that.

Half apprehensive, half ecstatic impatience.

" _You… truly believe unborn children are affected by their atmosphere_?" he said, out of a desire to fill the awkward silence more than anything.

David's wife nodded. " _It's an all but proven fact. The babies born during wars are often colicky. Surely stress and grief play a vital role in that?"_

Haji tilted his head. The theory seemed a tad far-fetched to him.

As if sensing his skepticism, David's wife laughed. A nice laugh. The kind you use between friends. " _Typical_.  _Men never consider these little details. But think about it? An unborn baby is as alive as either of us. Surely its subconscious can pick up things around it. Sense emotions. Like… intuition, I suppose."_

_Intuition._

And again, absurdly, Haji thought of Saya.

Wondered if, somehow, she could sense his longing and despair.

He would have time, soon enough, to put that theory to test.

* * *

Summer on the British Isles. Scent of seafoam and night-blooming flowers.

The cavern holding Saya's cocoon was dark. Glistening stalagmites rose like fangs from rocky floor. The cocoon pulsed within, a warm fetus. Outside, the world thrummed on; conjoined to the cocoon as inextricably as a human body.

With Haji as an umbilical cord. Bringing the cocoon nourishment, and news of the outside world.

"… In two hours, it will be twenty-one years since your Long Sleep," he murmured.

The walls around the cocoon were spiderwebbed in chrysalis. They smelled distinctly of sulfur. And beneath that, the more tangible, musky aroma of a slumbering Queen in her makeshift womb.

Sighing, Haji rested his head on the cocoon's surface. His pulse beat in tandem with the Saya-fuelled core.

Each trip he made here was born not from duty, but necessity. His hours spent listening to Saya's heartbeat, murmuring to her like a penitent in a confessional, were a vital  _caesura_  torn out of in his whirling life.

Like resurfacing for fresh air before diving back into ocean—a need that could not be controlled.

A need without which he would cease to  _be_.

"Twenty one years, Saya. Can you imagine that? It sounds like an ordinary number. But it is worse. 252 months. 7670 days. And—how many hours? I would count them for you, but…" A hollow smile. "If I did, I would go completely insane."

Wind roared eerily through the cavern walls. Haji shut his eyes.

"I  _am_  completely insane. That is why I am here. But you do not mind that, do you, Saya?"

The cocoon throbbed beneath his cheek. A visceral affirmation.

"I wish you would awaken. The world has changed so much. I'd like to show it to you. Ladies cut their hair short and wear trousers now. They drive cars—and work as physicians and aviatrixes and businesswomen. It nonplusses me, but I know you will be pleased. Music is different as well. No structure. Just  _hideous_  discordance. It is intolerable. My ears ached the first time I heard it. And there are so many inventions. Most popular is this contrivance called the television. The day of its creation was the blackest day for books in history."

No answer. The cocoon merely pulsed against his skin.

Sighing, Haji imagined he was resting his head on Saya's shoulder. Imagined he was inhaling, not the salty reek of sea, but the warm aroma she had given off back at the Zoo.

Back when hatred hadn't clogged up her pores, and bloodlust hadn't radiated off her like a predator's aura.

She used to smell of fresh milk and attar of roses, once. All blooming innocence. Even the aroma of her sweat had been sweet.

"Saya." Fingers trembling, Haji traced the cocoon's surface. His throat ached, eyes burning as if clogged with sand. "I miss you. There is not a moment I do not. But some nights are worse than others. I… keep remembering the first time we met at the Zoo. By the large fountain, was it not? I can still remember every detail. It was decades ago, but the memory feels fresher than anything I experienced during your Long Sleep. Or anything that happened yesterday, or three hours earlier. Without you, the world ceases to be real for me."

Saya's heartbeat thubbed steadily against his skin. A nod and a caress.

Opening his eyes, Haji rested his chin on the back of one hand. "Red Shield demands to know when you will awaken. They are losing patience. But I have no answer to give them. The mission grinds on, but my interest is not the same as it was. At least when you were awake, I had a reason to fight on. But without you, I simply go through the motions."

The cavern echoed dully with seawaves. Wind howled as if emulating the longing in his blood.

"Times have changed, Saya. Much more than I expected them to. I have seen so many new countries. All these exotic locations. But regardless of where I go, I stay the same. Dress the same, act the same. Even think the same. It is not because I am being stubborn. I just cannot let it go. Because if I do… part of me knows I will let  _you_  go as well. And I cannot bear that."

His palm stroked across the cocoon again. In a sense of possession, a sense of being possessed.

"The new Joel pairs me with human operatives on every Chiropteran hunt. He claims it gives me a  _humanizing influence_. I have no energy to argue with him. I am not sentimental enough for complete solitude. Or perhaps not strong enough. Strength is for people like you, Saya. People with all-or-nothing reasons to fight. I just fight because it is all I can do. And living for eternity just makes the wait longer."

The cocoon continued to thrum with his pulse. Haji sighed, eyes slipping shut.

Each time, resting against its surface, he felt a rush of long-denied relief, as if he had come  _home_.

And each time, feeling Saya's unmoving shape within, he wanted to sink to the floor and howl, as if he had lost the key.

"I have visited you every chance between Red Shield's missions, Saya. I cannot go more than thirteen months without it. But tonight is… different. I did something a year ago. Something I know you would not approve of."

He hesitated, swallowing.

The cocoon throbbed on, as if coaxing him to continue.

"Saya—you cannot know how it feels, to remain alive forever. Never ageing or dying. Never being part of the humans you exist alongside. Time loses meaning. Colors, tastes, everything becomes bland. You start seeking… alternatives to ease the monotony. Distractions, good and bad."

He pressed his fingertips to the cocoon. Heat radiated from them into the rest of his body.

"Saya—you remember how Joel used to say a hobby kept a man out of trouble? Out of debauchery is what he meant. I told you Red Shield assigns me on human teams. This time there were women among them. One of them—you would scream if you heard, but—she reminded me of you. Her name—well, at this point, it does not matter what her name was. It frightened me, how much she resembled you. Talking to her was… troublesome. I avoided it whenever possible. The only words we exchanged were about locations or medical supplies. But… two years back, that changed."

He hesitated, as if unwilling to continue. His own breathing was unnaturally loud in the cavern, overlaid by the cocoon's pulse.

"The teams were scouring out Chiropterans in Berlin, and she was assigned with our group, Saya. We were standing at our posts, keeping watch. And… she managed to draw me into a conversation. I am still not sure what it was about. I think it involved you. She wanted to know what it was like; fighting alongside you. Except I avoid discussing you whenever possible. I never realized why, until now. Talking about you lowers my defenses. It makes me more open to things. Makes me… remember."

He squeezed his eyes shut. Rode out the cocoon's rise-and-fall against his cheek.

"Using truisms is unsavory. But… one thing led to another. Not once. Constantly. The entire twelve months we were in Berlin, I was with her. If I were a greater coward, I would claim she made the first move. But it is not true.  _I_  did. I think… I made practically all the moves. At the time, it seemed like a fair exchange. We both wanted to forget something. She had just left a disloyal husband, and wanted to feel something different. And I—" He winced. "I suppose it was not fair at all. Because while it was… happening, all I thought of was you. That she was not you, and never could be. Even when I wanted most to forget—I could not. But that cannot justify what I did. In the end, I told her it was a mistake. I said we had to go our separate ways. She was angrier than I anticipated. She asked if I was in the habit of making these  _'mistakes'_  often. But instead of apologizing, I came here. Not came.  _Ran_."

The cocoon continued its steady peristalsis. Eyes closed, Haji succumbed to the tempo.

Often, he wondered, in moments of bitter retrospect: was he living out some scot-free fantasy of being with Saya through the affair? Using a substitute, because to demand such a thing of the real woman was an insult to both her and himself?

Or had he been making love, not with an absentee, but an  _idea_ , a  _concept_?

Some fragment of himself that had been taken away with Saya's own happiness, and would never come back.

"I am not making excuses for my behavior, Saya. Nor am I trying to justify myself to you. I just wish you would wake up. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me what I did was reprehensible. I need you to remind me what our duty is about. To kill Diva—nothing more. Without you, I cannot keep my faith. Each second just makes it harder."

This was, he surmised, the high price of immortality. Learning not the meaninglessness of time, but the second-by-second  _excruciation_  of it.

And learning too, the consequence of existing in a human world where he did not belong, and perhaps never could.

Of watching everything he ever knew disintegrate like a planet without its axis.

Perhaps this was what made Saya so much stronger than him? While he flailed around for a reason to go on, Saya looked straight ahead, making  _herself_  into that very reason.

Out of  _duty._

Eyes burning, Haji pressed his face to the cocoon. "I am making these confessions simply because I know you are asleep, Saya. I could never bear to say them if you were awake. I truly am a coward. I cannot bring myself to tell you how I feel." His throat tightened, and he swallowed. "I feel… unworthy of you, in every sense. I have since I was a boy. But lately it is as though I've sunk so far beneath that. I do not know who I am anymore. Without you, I never will. You are the one thing that keeps me going. Even during the nights when I heard you crying after every battle, and I thought the sound might tear me apart. Even then... at least I had a purpose. But in your absence, I have none. And pretending I do just makes it more unbearable."

But more unbearable still, was the promise binding him to Saya. That vow he had made to kill her, once her mission had ended.

Over and over, he asked himself if he had the courage to do it. If he could truly submit to duty, and take the life of someone who had sustained  _his_  life for decades on end.

The weight was as searing, yet as irreversible, as the unspoken feelings he hoarded for her.

Only time would tell whether duty or love won out in the end.

"At this rate, the wait may kill me, even if duty does not, Saya," he whispered. Acrid tears seeped from his eyes. The cocoon absorbed them like seawater on sand. "But I am not afraid to die for you. It is just living without you that I cannot stand."

The wind swallowed his words, leaving phantom echoes behind.

In that precise moment, the cocoon stopped pulsing.

Haji froze, the stillness reverberating through his whole body, like the beginning of Death or Time.

And then he heard it.

A soft  _scratch-scratch-scratch_ , pervading the rumble of seawaves. The sound crawled through his every sinew, leaving gooseflesh in its wake.

And he watched, as if witnessing the birth of a starburst, as five brittle fingers tore through the cocoon's shroud, clawing their way upward like rays of sunlight.

Haji's eyes widened, breath fizzling like rime from his lungs.

_Saya…?_

He watched her emerge as if in a dream, a mermaid rising from the murk. And distantly, he heard again, those faraway words:

_Affected by their environment._

_Like… intuition._

And he wondered if, somehow, Saya had been jerked awake by what he had told her.

Wondered if, somehow, she  _knew_ …

 

* * *


	17. Bel Canto

 

* * *

 **Bel canto:** Beautiful singing.

* * *

"Hey? Hey —you okay?"

"Shit, her face oughtta be  _smashed in_! Did you see how high she fell?"

"Elvis, shut up! Get a first-aid kit from the jeep!"

"She does not need a first-aid kit. She needs blood."

Her eyes are closed, but she makes out voices swirling around her. George, Elvis, David, Haji. She is propped up against something smooth and hard. Her cheek throbs in time to a sharp pulse.

A pulse identical to hers.

_Haji._

"George! Elvis! Get in touch with Red Shield," David says. "We need medics for Saya! And a clean-up crew to remove the bodies from that factory!  _Pronto_."

"Yes, sir!"

"Got it!"

She hears the crunch of combat boots on snow. People take off running. She wants to ask what is happening. But her tongue is not working, like every inch of her body.

A crazed thirst grips her. The urge to feed is like a goading hellion.

 _You will never be anything more than this,_ a cruel voice whispers.

_Never be anything but a blood-drinking monster._

"Un-fucking-believable." David's voice booms through her skull. "Jumping off the tank like that. You trying to get yourself killed, Saya?"

_Good question._

She is not sure David will like the answer.

A cool hand encircles hers. She can tell, just by the width and length of the fingers, that it is Haji's. She realizes her own hand is still clutching her sword in a death-grip.

"Saya." Haji's voice is right against her ear. "Open your eyes."

She feels him looming over her; it is his chest her heavy head rests against. But her vision cannot resolve anything beyond a blur of red and black. She groans, eyes slipping shut again.

"Please do not try to move. You need blood." Arms around her, urgently raising her. She fights back gushing nausea, clutching weakly at his coat.

"Take it easy, Haji! Don't move her so fast!"

Rustle of clothing. The familiar sound of dagger slicing skin.

"It's fine, David. I've got her. She just needs to feed _._ "

"But—"

"David. It's  _fine_."

A familiar bittersweet scent suffuses the air. Cool fingers tilt her chin, and then something thick, warmish, splashes her lips.

She starts to gasp, "What—?" but then coppery fluid fills her mouth, sliding down her throat.

 _Blood_.

Her whole body alights to the taste, Haji's liquid energy forcing its way into her, dark and satisfying on the tongue. She would reject the gift, were she capable of it. But instinct is overwhelming. Her teeth sink into the skin of his palm, and then she is swallowing, swallowing, her stupor fading with every gulp.

Crackling power suffuses each muscle. Her body, so sluggish, now twitches—as much from the rush of agonizing sensation as the spark of unwelcome life. Slowly, the blur of color resolves into faces. She sees David and Haji, peering anxiously at her. Haji lifts his palm from her lips, blood dribbling down her chin. His blue eyes are eerily bright in the darkness.

"Saya," he whispers. "Are you all right?"

Disoriented, she cannot answer.

David shakes his head. "If you were aiming for Suicide by Pratfall, you sure took the scenic route, Saya." But under the bluster, his relief is palpable. "Can you get up? Or do we have to carry you on a stretcher?"

She tries to move, but her body is a riot of pain. Her wince communicates the answer.

David sighs. "Stretcher it is."

"It's all right." Haji smoothes the blood-sticky hair from her brow. "Get some rest."

She manages a nod.

Inside her, a sob burgeons, a congested bubble about to burst. She imagines herself just fading into the air, vanishing—not back to the days of the Zoo, not into that gullet of Death—but utterly out of existence.

But can't.

Because even now, when all she wants is to be extinguished, Haji's gaze still holds her back. Forcing her to keep living through her duty—a terrible lifeline in this war.

Suddenly she pities him, far more than she does herself. Pities him for never losing hope in her, even when it is clear that she is hopeless. If only he would see it too, and leave her be.

Except she knows she will feel forsaken if he turns from her.

_He's all I have left…_

"H-Haji." She tastes aching words on her tongue. Her fingers twine with his, squeezing tight. "I'm so sorry…"

* * *

Red Shield's operatives carry out a line of body-bags from the pipe-factory. At a corner, a nondescript truck awaits. Ready to cart the victims away for either burial or cremation.

Unsung warriors in an unknown war, their sacrifices erased from the public eye.

This is the world Saya and Haji live in. This is the duty they must endure.

But Haji does not have to pretend to like it.

Another truck, housing Saya's prone shape, is parked a few feet off. Medics bustle around his Queen, administering painkillers. The fall from the gas tank has left her with three cracked ribs and a fractured arm, on top of various contusions. By his guess, it will take her two blood-packs and three hours of sedation to physically recover from the aftermath.

If only psychological wounds were as easy to heal.

Hands in his pockets, David stands beside Haji. A lit cigarette glows between his teeth. "She gonna be all right?"

"Yes." This is not the worst injury Saya has endured. And Haji knows, painfully clear, that it won't be the last. "The medics will transfer her to the townhouse in Manhattan. That way, she can rest uninterrupted."

David snorts. "How thoughtful." Both he and Haji know it is just Joel Goldschmidt's way to ensure that Saya stays within reach.

In silence, they watch operatives carry the last bodybag into the truck.

"It's a good thing no civilians got wind of that storehouse," David remarks. "If the police had gotten involved, Red Shield would've had a hard time explaining things to them. As far as paperwork is concerned, our operatives don't exist. Their impounded corpses would've been labeled John Does."

"In this war, it is a necessary precaution."

David exhales a puff of smoke. "Speak for yourself, Confucius. Me, I still get these itches some days. Where I feel like I've seen enough guts to last me a lifetime, and I just wanna give it up and rent a nice condo in Miami."

Haji nods. He knows all about those days. In the life he and Saya have, they are called weekdays.

A belated thought occurs to him. He turns to face David.

"There is something I need to know."

"What?"

"The bodies in that factory.  _Did_  you know they would be there?"

"Hm—?" Frustrated, David pulls the cigarette from his lips. "We've been over this.  _No_. It wasn't a detail Red Shield shared with me."

"Or perhaps they did, and they ordered you not to tell  _us_?"

David shakes his head. "You sound exactly like Saya. But think about it. If I  _did_  know about those bodies, and if I  _was_  sure you were onto me, we wouldn't be chatting it up. I'd be running my ass off, with you throwing punches at the back of my head."

Haji's expression is unreadable. "That could still happen."

"It could. But won't."

"Do not be too sure. I have broken your arm once before."

David grimaces at the reminder. "I was twenty-four back then. And stupid. I took one gander at you and wrote you off as a ball-less milksop. But I  _did_  apologize later—if you remember."

"You did." Haji tilts his head. "But this is about misinformation. Not misreckonings."

Adamant, David shakes his head. "I've already told you everything I know. If you want details,  _I'm_  not the one to ask." He jerks his chin to where Elvis and George are standing.

George notices them staring and quirks an eyebrow. But Elvis stiffens.

Following David's gaze, Haji says, "My… damaging one of your men does not bother you?"

"If he really is 'innocent', we'll buy him drinks afterward. If not—" David shrugs. "Not exactly a bunch of bleeding hearts. No one's gonna wet their panties over some turncoat getting his ass handed to him." He draws on his cigarette, the cherry burning red. "It's like that song says. 'Just as every cop's a criminal…' "

" 'And all the sinners saints'," Haji finishes.

David blinks. Haji merely shrugs and makes his way toward Elvis.

Under the sunglasses, Elvis pales. Turning, he begins to walk away—

—When Haji appears right before him, faster than the eye can track.

"Jesus—!" Alarmed, Elvis nearly trips backward. "Wh-what the hell are you doing?"

Toneless, Haji says, "I believe Saya left off a conversation with you. About the bodies in that factory."

"Wha—?" Elvis scowls. "I already  _told_  you. It was just a lucky guess. If you're gonna give me a goddamned third degree over some—"

"No one is giving you a third degree. There is no reason to run off."

"I wasn't  _running,_  asshole. I just—have someplace else to be."

"You will not object to answering a few questions, first."

Elvis tries to shoulder past him. "I said  _I don't know anything_. So get the fuck out of my way."

Haji shakes his head. "Please do not make this more difficult."

" _Difficult_? What's that supposed to be? A threat? First that half-pint brat—now you _?_  I guess when the  _pussy's_  away, the mouse comes out to—"

Haji's palm flashes out very fast, and Elvis is suddenly sprawled on the floor, sunglasses askew. The surrounding operatives freeze. Some, like George, shrink back uneasily. Others step forward with weapons raised.

David just watches from the sidelines, unmoving.

"You  _fuck_!" Coughing, Elvis props himself up on an elbow. His mouth is bleeding. He turns to David as if tattling, "Did you  _see_  what this psycho just did?"

David doesn't bat an eyelid. "I didn't see anything. You oughtta be more careful, Elvis. Keep tripping up on your feet, and you'll wind up in an early grave."

Incredulous, Elvis blinks.

Haji looms over at him. "Answer the question, please. How did you know there were bodies in the factory?"

" _Look_  man. I don't—" He chokes back a gasp as Haji grabs a fistful of his shirt, hauling him roughly to his feet.

"The truth.  _Now_."

Elvis struggles to break free. If he is trying to pull a poker-face, it is not working. Haji would not even call that a Gin Rummy face. "What're you gonna do if I  _don't_?  _Glare_  at me to death?"

Haji rests his palm flat on Elvis' nose. "There is a combat move the US Marines use. An open-handed jab that can smash your nose right into your skull. All you need is the correct trajectory." He replaces his palm with a single digit. "I can do that with my thumb."

"Oooh—I'm  _shaking_  in my boots!"

In reply, Haji presses with his thumb. Hard.

In a blink, Elvis' bravado collapses. " _All right! All right_!"

* * *

At 5:00 PM, James Ironside takes a twenty-minute break.

Not at 5:05, and not for nineteen minutes—not at 4:49 and not for twenty-one minutes—at exactly 5:00, and for exactly twenty minutes. When he was a human, this exact ritual had been conducted at the exact time, for a coffee-break and a power-nap to replenish his energy.

Now, as a Chevalier, it is no different.

Efficient, meticulous, James enters the hotel room and shrugs out of his coat, leaving it folded neatly on the adjacent peg. And, efficient, meticulous, he makes his way to the refrigerator, drawing out a tightly-sealed medical blood-pack to pour into a glass from the kitchenette.

As with every aspect of his life, James monitors his intake—as would a human observing a strict diet, or a doctor administering a powerful drug.

His severity is not without reason. He's seen what excessive blood-drinking can do to a Chiropteran's behavior. One of the root causes for Diva's volatile moods, after all, is her feeding excess.

Blood is more than a food-supply for their kind; it is a  _life-source_. It should be handled with self-discipline.

Which is why, more than anything, James believes in order, control. He likes polished surfaces and immaculate corners; likes cold numbers and solid statistics. They are his vital guidelines in this chaotic life, without which anything can fall to ruin. He carries out his assignments with the same clockwork precision, as cool and objective as if solving a basic mathematical equation.

 _If there_  is  _a God, He exists only in the details,_  is his motto.

Suddenly, a familiar laugh fills his ears.

James' fingers tighten on his glass.

At once, all  _order_  and  _control_  order leaks out of him—replaced by an irrational wave of  _need_.

_Diva._

James shuts his eyes. Has to take a breath, to the remind himself of the reality of his own person, his duties—instead of feeling like a mere instrument without the luminous existence of  _her_ life as his center.

_Diva._

Without realizing it, he heads for the source of the laugh. His steps are steady. But his pulse races, highlighting a latent urgency. Suddenly it seems unbearable to return to his office, to conduct his tasks—and keep himself away from his Queen's magnetizing presence.

He crosses the living area, labeled mentally as Where Diva Plays. Colorful giftboxes with crinkled tissue-paper are scattered everywhere. Dolls with golden curls strewn across the plush carpet, pretty shoes and slippers tossed about, dresses in blooming rainbow shades all heaped together amid white gowns that swirl across the furniture like tufts of whipped cream. And everywhere, bouquets of blue roses.

It seems Nathan's  _contest_  is already in full-swing.

Someone has gotten Diva presents.  _Lots_  of them.

James walks faster, his heart pounding, a frantic song of yearning.

_Diva…_

Then he sees a coat. Draped with casual insolence across a chair by Diva's bedroom door.

A  _white_  coat.

_Solomon's_ _._

James freezes at the doorway, one hand still half-raised to knock. His fingers tremble, and he takes a breath, letting the arm drop.

Through the bedroom door, he can smell them: Diva's electrifying scent pervading the air, overlaid by her favorite Chevalier's. He hears her laugh again, a  _bel canto_  that dissolves on a breathless moan. Hears the hum of Solomon's chuckle, and then his murmurs, enrapt, insinuating, but not the words.

Although he knows what  _those_ are likely to be.

_Dammit._

How Solomon always finds time, despite his whirlwind agenda, to indulge himself with Diva, James will never know.

But it makes him despise the man  _twice_  as much.

Then the bed begins to creak in strident melody, to Diva's ratcheting whimpers.

_Thump._

_Thump._

James squeezes his eyes shut, rage buzzing like a million gnats in his skull.

_Dammit. Dammit!_

As Chevaliers, blood-brothers, they are, of course, telepathically-twined. If James concentrates hard enough, if he directs the flow of his thoughts  _just so_ , he can supplant his consciousness over Solomon's. Experience, second-hand, all the delights  _Solomon_ must be experiencing.

He knows it's a game Solomon and Karl play frequently. One Chevalier's way of inciting, or inviting, the other.

But the idea of that closeness repulses him. It isn't that he minds such a sublime intimacy with Diva.

But…  _Solomon_?

_Never in a million years._

"Why James, you  _naughty_  boy! I never would've taken  _you_  for a voyeur!"

James whirls, nearly spilling his glass of blood.

Nathan coalesces out of the patterned draperies like a chameleon. Face alit with a jeering-jester's smile—as if he's caught James with one hand in the cookie jar.

Or in his pants.

James glowers. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to feel the  _envy_ shooting off you in bright-green sparks." Nathan rests his chin on the back of one hand, eyes twinkling. "I've always said you gain  _twice_ the appeal when you're all het up. There's nothing quite like an overwrought man in uniform, after all."

Ignoring him, James drains his glass, three perfectly-measured gulps, and sets it on the adjacent bureau. Nathan watches him with far more interest than necessary. In the background, Diva's cries deepen, melting together, songlike.

James' eyebrow twitches.

 _What is Solomon_ doing  _to her?_

"The real question is not  _what_ , but  _how._ " Nathan examines his polished fingernails, all innocence. "Maybe you should pop in and check them out? Pick up a few pointers?"

" _What_?"

"Oh, don't look so  _aghast_. You're  _not-staring_ at that door so hard it's a wonder you haven't burned a  _hole_ into it from the back of your skull."

James' spine stiffens. "I do not know what you are talking about." Breaking eye-contact, he irritably straightens his tie. "I have to return to work. Unlike you, some of us have  _duties_ to abide to."

He turns to leave, but Nathan is suddenly right before him. Springy fingers poke at his sternum. "Hold on a mo, James. I need to talk to you."

"Whatever it is, I am not interested. I am busy."

A reconaissant hand spider-walks up his shirtfront, drumming across his shoulder like piano keys. " _I'll_ say. I can feel knots the size of cat's-eye  _marbles_ there. You  _really_ need to loosen up, James."

" _Shut up_." James jabs for Nathan's face.

The blow whistles through empty air. In an eyeblink, Nathan is behind him, serpentine arms wrapped stole-style around his shoulders.

"Oooh—you nearly  _got_  me that time! You're getting faster by the day!"

James wrenches away. "Practice makes perfect."

"That it does. At  _anything_ , at  _anytime_."

As if in punctuation, Diva's cries gain volume.

James fights off an overwhelming surge of longing and fury. It is only the urge to muffle the next-room soundtrack that makes him ask: "Just what do you want to talk about?"

Nathan beams as if James has bitten a well-camouflaged bait. "Why,  _Diva_  of course!"

"Diva?"

"Mmm-hmm. Tell me, James. Have you decided what sort of  _gift_  you're going to get her?"

"I have. But I intend to present it to Diva personally. There is no reason to tell  _you_."

"Even so. Humor me. What could it be?"

It is a set of exquisite ruby-and-sapphire brooches Diva once admired in Paris, back in 1945. James has had to scope far and wide to find a pair exactly like them.

Aloud, he says, "It's none of your business."

Nathan's face takes on a sly moue. "It's not those ruby-sapphire  _brooches_  Diva cooed about so much in Paris, is it?"

The skin around James' eyes tightens. "How did—"

"Oh, come now, James. It takes very little imagination to figure  _that_  out. Haven't you ever tried thinking  _outside_  of the box? And by that, I mean  _Diva's_."

James glowers. " _Enough_. I'm going back to work. You've already put me five minutes behind schedule."

Nathan waggles a dismissive hand. " _Screw_  the schedule for one day, James. Let's focus on  _Diva_  for a moment. About what gift  _she_  really wants—and not what  _you_  think she wants."

"What… Diva wants?"

"But of  _course_. You  _do_  know, as well as I do, what her deepest wish is, right?"

James nods.

Of course he knows. It's the one thing he cannot give her, no matter how much he yearns to. The one thing not even  _Solomon_  can, for all the tunes he might be making Diva sing.

But even that thought bears little comfort.

Again, Nathan speaks as if he can read James' mind. "Well then. Why not  _remedy_  the problem?"

"What?"

"Think about it. Diva's greatest wish is to have  _babies_. And while you or I or even our angelfaced Lothario in there can't give them to her—there is one Chevalier who  _can_."

James' eyes are slitted. "You mean Haji?"

"Exactly. All we need to do is capture him and present him to Diva."

"That is out of the question. Amshel specified that we are not to make contact with Saya or her Chevalier. We are to proceed with our duties until a more suitable course of action presents itself."

"That may be so. But let's look past the petty details—the  _duties_ —and focus on the big picture for a moment, shall we? Like any good businessman, Amshel wants us to stay clear of Saya because a confrontation would result in  _damages_. Specifically to  _Diva_. But if, in the process, Diva is deprived of the  _one thing_  she craves most, then it's such a  _wasted_  golden opportunity, isn't it?"

"Everything Amshel does is for the good of Diva!" James snaps. "If you are trying to make me forgo my duties for some ridiculous scheme—"

Nathan huffs. "There you go about  _duty_  again. James, haven't you ever heard the phrase:  _no guts, no glory_? Surely you realize that all these  _duties_  are for one goal alone: Diva's happiness. But if you can reach that goal without all the foofaraw in between, you've  _made the bigtime_  on a number of fronts."

James pauses. Tempting as it may be to think of the situation in that light, he isn't one for recklessness. And he certainly hasn't reached this point by being stupid.

"Why exactly are you telling me about this plan? Why not propose it to Karl, or Solomon?"

Nathan lifts a shoulder, his smile sweet and earnest and entirely untrustworthy. "I suppose it's because you're a boy who always finishes what he starts."

"That can't be the real reason."

"I guess it's not." Nathan examines a well-manicured cuticle. "Let's just say, this is not about you. It's about  _Diva_."

"So you claim."

Nathan makes a pert face. "Well, I guess it's a little  _boredom_ -inspired too. What's the point of a  _contest_  without a dash of  _dirty-pool_  to spice up the recipe, after all?"

James regards him warily. "So you're hoping to secure my help in capturing Saya's Chevalier?"

A contemptuous sniff. "Not  _help_. I need you to be more of a  _lookout_. There's a specific means by which I want to get my hands on Haji. And for that, I need someone to, um,  _lubricate_  my entrances and exits."

James' nose wrinkles at the salacious implications. "And what will I get out of this?"

"Well, you  _do_  want to show up your prettyboy prick of a brother, don't you? What better way to do so, than by presenting your queen with her heart's deepest desire?"

"You're saying, if Haji's capture and Diva's impregnation are successful, you'll let me take credit for it?"

"Why not? The way I see it, it's a win-win situation. You'll gain greater favor in Amshel's eyes,  _and_  in Diva's heart. Diva will get her babies. And _I'll_  get to watch some  _fabulous_  drama play out, without getting my hands dirty. Everybody's happy!"

As if in suffix, Diva's sobbing cries fill the air, fusing with Solomon's groans. A wild, ecstatic duo of crest.

James musters all his willpower into tuning it out. "So where exactly are we going to capture Haji?"

Nathan sweeps a pair of tickets out of his shirt-pocket, airy as a Japanese fan.

Metropolitan opera. Puccini's  _Madame Butterfly_.

"Amusingly, Puccini used the clashing themes of  _duty_  versus personal  _desire_ in this lovely piece, did you know?" Nathan drawls. "It's a timeless concept. But for once, what do you say we  _blend_  duty into personal desire? And grant the lovely princess her wish?"

The thought appeals tremendously to James. As does the idea of toppling Solomon from his pedestal, and gaining a higher standing in Amshel and Diva's regard.

This may just provide him with a foot through the door.

"Of course," he says aloud. "Everything is for Diva."

Nathan chuckles, as if James has made some preposterous remark. But his gaze is flat. Completely devoid of the usual naughty glint.

A gaze that sees all—and has seen it all too many times before.

"If that's what floats your boat, James," he says. "But perhaps I'm not alone in confusing  _what_  my duties are, with what I would  _like_  to believe they are…"

* * *

 


	18. Estinto

 

* * *

 **Estinto:** extinct, extinguished

* * *

Joel Goldschmidt faces the window of his study, hands crossed behind his back. The night-darkened glass reflects his features.

"So the Chiropterans in Staten Island were contained?"

"Yes." Haji stands blank-faced at the door.

"Commendable. However, Saya was foolish enough to get herself injured in battle. Where is she now?"

"Resting." Or at least she had been, in a room downstairs. Eyes closed as a medic administered her transfusion drip, the fingers of her free hand threaded with Haji's.

She'd fallen asleep that way, their fingers still loosely twined, until Joel had summoned Haji for a  _status report_.

"Unfortunate," Joel says, as if hearing of a leaky sink. "Her incapacitation wastes valuable time. What's more, one of our operatives was killed at Staten Island. That causes—"

Impassive, Haji says, "I should think that would be the least of your concerns."

"I  _beg_  your pardon?" Joel half-turns, frowning as if he has misheard.

"Were Saya awake, it is not pardon you would beg for." Haji's eyes narrow. "That operative wasn't the first one killed in Staten Island. He was the  _nineteenth_."

"Nineteenth?"

"There were eighteen other operatives, hidden in an old pipe factory. Each one wearing some form of Red Shield insignia. The Chiropterans dragged them into an enclosed space, as a 'food storage' for the winter."

Joel's jaw clenches. He does not answer.

"You obviously knew all along where the Chiropterans were hiding. Just as Saya earlier claimed. You  _did_  summon us for no purpose but to clean up your mess."

"You have no  _proof_  of this."

"I have a confession from one of your operatives, stating that you were aware of this situation. As for proof—what more proof would one need, but nineteen corpses?"

There is a choking silence.

Slowly, Joel turns to face Haji. Gaze acetylizing into something colder. More watchful.

"Even if that were true, it makes no difference now. The problem has been dealt with. And Saya has fulfilled her duty. Which is what she exists for."

"Perhaps. However, Saya was less than pleased with this coercion."

" _Pleased_? What should  _her_  opinion have to do with it? She is a weapon in this war. She exists to destroy the Chiropterans. That is all. The  _real_  decisions are for Red Shield to make."

"If you insist. But do you think it wise to play such games with your only trump card? After all her years of service, Saya has a right to be informed of the truth."

Joel waves a hand. "Do not start with that Bolshevik nonsense about  _equal rights_. The Almighty has put forth two types of people in this world. Those who govern, and those who obey. Yours and Saya's role is the latter. Do not forget that."

Haji's lips thin. "For now. But for how much longer?"

" _What_  do you mean by that?"

Haji stifles a wince. A distant lesson the first Joel had taught him resurfaces:

_Never issue an ultimatum unless you hold all the aces._

He gathers his thoughts. He fervently wants the Mission to go as smoothly for Saya as possible. But at the same time, he senses that it will be impossible, with Joel's hard-lined tactics opposing her at every step. Not unless an impasse is reached. Saya's own words resound—about needing leverage against Red Shield. Needing a way to get that power back.

But what is most ironic, and what Saya failed to grasp, is that she  _is_  that leverage. Red Shield's only weapon.

Her presence, or the lack of it, determines the flow of everything around her.

And profit, for any good businessmen, is an argument that outweighs all else in the end.

Haji locks eyes with Joel's. "If you do not desist in your current tactics, Saya will detach from Red Shield."

Joel stiffens. "You are bluffing."

"Not in the least. You told Saya, when she first arrived here, to remember what she was. A Chiropteran. What you perhaps don't realize is, in ideal circumstances, it makes her an anomaly among humans. One she is free to reverse at any time."

"What  _precisely_  do you mean, boy?"

"You know perfectly well what I mean,  _monsieur_. And I am not a boy." Words of ice, sliding off his tongue to strike Joel's face. The man blinks, mouth falling open. But Haji continues. "How would you react if I informed you that Saya is growing disillusioned with the mission? That she is experiencing a long overdue burnout? She half-wishes to abandon her duties and start anew."

"That—is  _preposterous_!"

"Is it?"

"She knows  _full-well_  that if she abandons her mission, Diva will be the victor. The world will fall prey to Chiropteran tyranny! Why would she allow that?"

"Why would she object? As you have been so considerate to remind us, she and I are Chiropterans. Why should we be averse to a unanimous rule of—what did you call it?—our  _kind_?"

Joel's nostrils flare. "Because it is your  _duty_! The responsibilities you were charged with!"

"Self-appointed responsibilities," Haji says, polite but frigid. "Taking up arms against Diva was a choice Saya made. Not Red Shield. This organization was formed to offer her support."

"Which is precisely what we  _do_!"

"With lies and misinformation?"

Fuming, Joel draws himself up to his full height. "Do not take that litigious tone with me! We have been hearing rumors off and on that Saya is losing focus! She has begun making reckless decisions during missions. Lost her objectivity. Indeed, this latest mishap all but  _confirms_  it!"

"So the clean-up at Staten Island was a test? To see how Saya would perform?" Haji's face is blank. But a bite of disgust creeps into his voice.

"It was the only way to ensure that Saya would fulfill her duties! As  _allies_ , we were entitled to test her!"

"Allies do not need to 'test' each other."

"But businessmen  _do_!" Joel slams a palm across the desk. The coffee cup on the blotter rattles, spilling brown fluid down the spotless porcelain. When he speaks, his voice is sharp. An animal baring its fangs. "Now see here,  _boy_. Do not play games with me. The last thing I will tolerate is this individualistic cancer about  _truth and egality_. That is not how any organization, large or small, is run. A hierarchy exists everywhere— _everywhere_ —and must be maintained to ensure the success of the enterprise!"

"Then you may start by reverting Red Shield to its original one. Back when Saya was allowed to make her own decisions."

"You are in no position to bargain with me!"

"And you are in no position to order me." Haji's gaze is lancinate as a bite. "I am a servant of Saya. I do only as she wishes. And if she wishes—at any point—to leave Red Shield, I will not hesitate to obey."

Joel's eyes bulge. " _How_   _dare_   _you_! I could have you both caged, you know? I could have you and your she-devil mistress tossed into a cell—to starve you both into obedience!"

"And in the meanwhile, how many more Chiropterans will run free? How many more liabilities—financial and otherwise—will Red Shield shoulder?"

Joel freezes.

Haji leans in. "I will be blunt. I do not care for Red Shield. My allegiances are to Saya. I would suffer no qualms about abandoning my duties to you, if it ever came to that point."

Joel's throat works. Entire demeanor recoalescing as if in a mercurial-shift. A businessman gauging the temperature of a prospective venture.

Lower, more reasonable, he says, "Now look here. There is no need for such threats. We are both rational gentlemen. Saya, as a woman, is susceptible to weakness. But I can see that you are a levelheaded man. You could do greater things for the organization, by assisting rather than opposing us."

"Pardon me?"

"It is evident that you hold a great concern for Saya. And evident that she trusts you. I find that laudable, given that she trusts so few. You should act as a link to her on our behalf—a  _mediator_. Then she will understand our wishes better. It will mold her into appropriate obedience."

Haji tilts his head. "If you are hoping I will spy on Saya for you, then I am afraid you will have to take the long road. My answer is no."

"This war behooves clear-headedness, my good man. You must not allow your personal feelings to sway your judgment. Think of it as a means of aiding Red Shield. And the Mission as a whole."

"I was not born yesterday. I would thank you to remember that. I would willingly aid your version of  _the Mission_ on a cold day in Hell."

Joel fixes Haji with quite a different eye now. Almost the same look Niklas gave him at the diner—a renewed awareness.

But where Niklas' gaze held curiosity, Joel's is filled with pure dislike.

"What sort of  _game_  are you playing, boy?"

Haji represses a wry smile.

Ah. No more  _'My good man'_ , then.

"None. I am simply reminding you of your duties. Just as you have been so kind as to remind Saya and myself."

Outrage suffuses Joel's face. "You are  _blackmailing_  me, aren't you? You are threatening to coerce Saya into abandoning Red Shield, unless we meet your demands?"

"I cannot coerce Saya into anything. What she does, she does of her own free will. All I am requesting is that you curtail your tactics. Play things on a level field—or else leave it to Saya entirely."

Joel bristles. "You propose that we abandon the Mission to  _her_? What decisions would  _she_ be capable of making? What possible course would  _that creature_  steer this organization in? An organization that is built on  _our_  blood and sweat?"

Haji doesn't answer. Going into semantics of equality—especially where Saya is concerned—is unlikely to move Joel. His breed of gentlemen sees people in terms of a visceral Boston Matrix. Those of maximum profitability are  _Stars_ , and those of minimum,  _Dogs_.

There is no room for anything in between—or beyond.

No room, certainly, for understanding the self-killing installment plan this war has turned Saya's life into.

"You may have steered the organization so far," he murmurs, "but how much longer will you keep control, if you lose your trump card?"

Joel's jowls quiver. "Sham. S-H-A-M. Saya may lack obedience, but she still has her precious  _principles_. She would never abandon the Mission for personal gain."

"Wouldn't she? Think carefully. Was it not the same Saya who nearly strangled you in this very room, two days ago? And was I not right behind her, watching?"

The stench of fury crackles in the study. Joel keeps his eyes pinned on Haji, as if waiting for him to laugh off the entire conversation, dismiss it as a ruse.

But Haji remains motionless. Unspeaking.

Exhaling, Joel seems to deflate of canon-fire— _estinto_ , as one would say of a symphony. Reaching for the chair, he slumps heavily into it.

"Out with it. What do you want?"

Haji keeps his expression neutral. But inside, he cannot help but be pleased that Joel is so choleric. "Please remove those cameras from the safe-house."

"Cameras?"

"Yes. The Minox cameras recording us from behind the cracks in every wall. We do not enjoy being watched like hyenas in the zoo."

"Hyenas," Joel says. "You're both  _worse_  than any blood-licking pack of hyenas."

Haji opts to ignore that. "Another thing. If you do intend to pass further orders to Saya, use David as the link. It is his duty, and Saya does not respond favorably to working with anyone else."

It will also ensure that Saya has a pair of helpful eyes stationed behind the scenes, to keep watch for any further mind-games Red Shield might play. But of course he does not tell Joel that.

"Very well. Is that all?"

Haji shakes his head.

Joel's lip curls. "Yes. I thought not."

"I have one last request."

"A  _'request'_ , and not a demand? My, how politely you phrase yourself. You should consider a second-career as France's  _charge d'affaires_."

Again, Haji opts for temporary deafness. "It concerns Red Shield's treatment of Saya. She wants to be given  _carte blanche_  in future assignments. Allowed to make her own decisions—subject of course to the organization's council. But no more. Red Shield exists to support her. But not to act as a noose around her throat."

Joel's eyes are slitted. "Out of the question! We agree to remove the cameras, and to keep David as Saya's link. But that is all. Any further liberties are just taking things too far!"

"Your cooperation, not resistance, would make it easier for us to capture Diva."

Joel blinks, as if intuiting a coded message. "Are you submitting an assurance that if Red Shield allows Saya free reign, then she will succeed in eliminating  _Diva_?"

"I offer no such guarantees. But it would certainly make the goal easier to achieve."

Locked in a stalemate, the two men stare at each other. A moment slips by. Then two.

Finally, Joel's eyes unbutton from his. He is seething, but resigned. "You are even worse than  _she_ is. Saya is merely  _stubborn._  But you are outright  _unreasonable_."

Haji doesn't dignify that with a response. "Do we have an agreement?"

Joel's mouth curdles. "Very well. In laying down these terms, and in my conceding to them, you agree that Saya will continue to abide to her duty. But what about yourself?"

"Myself?"

"Yes. In the event that Saya is Killed In Action. Or if she succumbs to her Long Sleep. What guarantee is there that you will fight on in her place?"

"The guarantee that I will. If only because it is what she wishes."

Joel's gaze is speculative. "And in exchange for allowing Saya greater freedom, if I send you to assist Red Shield's Vietnam teams, during her Long Sleep? Would you agree?"

Haji pauses. He suspected that these unpleasant terms would crop up. Joel is locked in an impasse, and, in a tit-for-tat, is now turning the tables on him. Haji has no choice but to bite the bullet.

"…Yes."

"And should our scientists wish to perform tests on you? To better understand the nature of your blood? Would you agree to that as well?"

Haji does not answer. A sudden presentiment chills him. The same presentiment he felt as a boy, when two well-dressed, cold-eyed strangers bought him from his family for a loaf of bread. The same one he felt the day before Joel's birthday, as if the wake of an imminent apocalypse. The same he felt when Saya met his eyes on that dreadful train journey, murmuring,  _I want you to promise me..._

A presentiment that his life will never be the same again.

"Yes," he says. "But…"

"What?"

"Should something go wrong—" He isn't sure what, but his subconscious warns him that it will. Science is a process of more error than success, in his observation.

Taking a breath, he burns his boats. "Should the situation in Vietnam go awry, leading to some form of damage to Saya, or myself, I will detach from Red Shield, as stated."

"Regardless of Saya's wishes?"

"Regardless. There is a limit to everything."

"You are being precipitate. Nothing will happen. This is business as usual."

"Combat is never  _business as usual_."

If it were, it would certainly make his and Saya's lives easier.

Joel seems not to hear him. Wiping his hands together as if finished with some unpleasant task, he rises. " _Bon_. You will fulfill your duties to us, just as we will fulfill our duties to you. A mutual agreement."

"Of course," Haji says.

_In theory._

But reality, also in his observation, tends to play out quite differently.

Months later in Vietnam, surrounded by fire and screams, clutching the bleeding stump of his arm, he will look into Saya's feral red eyes, and taste his own words like a foreshadowing written in blood.

* * *

Saya's fingers were entwined through Haji's when she drifted off.

But awakening on her hard makeshift cot, she finds herself alone. The air is laced with the smell of burnt tobacco. Her medic must have gone off for a cigarette break.

Disoriented, Saya wavers between consciousness and sleep. Her pulse pounds so hard it is a wonder she managed to rest at all. Her left hand lies stretched out before her, thin and anemic, wired to the red line of a transfusion drip. The medical bloodpack dangles on its stand, nearly empty.

Staring at it, Saya feels past events slide back, one by one, beads of lipoid released in water. The snowy woods in Staten Island. The fetid corpses stored in the factory. The rain of blood from Lou's body. The winged Chiropterans.

And all those grotesque faces of her dead, still flailing at the edges of her psyche.

Still beseeching her.

_We're waiting for you..._

She shuts her eyes.

Her whole body aches with old bruises. When she'd let that Chiropteran tackle her off the gas tank, the nerve-wracking impact from air to ground had left her too shattered for the slightest twitch.

But it had been a small price to pay, for all the lives she'd ruined. Far better to go out fighting, nothing left to lose, than to stay alive and continue tainting everyone around her.

She'd almost laughed as Death's familiar black wave had crested over her, swallowing her down.

Until Haji had forced his blood into her, demolishing it.

_Haji…_

Groggy, Saya sits up, drawing the needle from her arm. She wonders where her Chevalier has gone. Her mind feels trapped in a disorienting  _jamais vu_. But seeing Haji's face will steady her as it always does. Keep her afloat even when she is drowning, like Alice in her own tears.

Staggering up, Saya follows instinct toward Haji's presence. The townhouse is deathly quiet; no one comes out to intercept her. She drifts upstairs, across plush rugs and chestnut-paneled corridors. A penumbra of light glows through a half-open door.

Saya catches familiar threads of Haji's voice. And Joel's.

What are they talking about?

Soundless, she steps closer.

Haji says: "... your cooperation, not resistance, would make it easier for us to capture Diva." His voice is businesslike, curt. The way he sounds whenever having unpleasant conversations.

Joel lets off an impatient huff, saying something Saya cannot catch.

She frowns.

 _Capture_   _Diva?_

Have they found her location? Are they discussing how to attack her?

She takes a breath, hand curling around the cool doorknob. If Joel has information on Diva's whereabouts, she wants to hear it in person. She's killed those  _escaped Chiropterans_  on Staten Island, despite Red Shield's deception. Now it is Joel's turn to fulfill  _his_  end of the deal.

Then Joel says: "... In laying down these terms, and in my conceding to them, you agree that Saya will continue to abide to her duty."

Saya stiffens.

_What?_

The ensuing back-and-forth is too soft to catch. Until Haji says, with an air of finality, "... I will detach from Red Shield, as stated."

"Regardless of Saya's wishes?"

"Regardless. There is a limit to everything."

Saya's fingers tighten on the doorknob. A premonition prickles her.

_What's going on?_

Something in the way both men are talking, a terseness in their voices, makes her uncomfortable. It reminds her of discussions about herself that she used to overhear between the first Joel and Amshel.

As if they were speaking of a secret that she had no business knowing. As if, though they were discussing  _her_  future, she was to have no say in it.

 _This is business, my dear,_  Amshel would sneer, whenever she complained.  _Gentlemen's talk. None of your concern._

Now, she hears the creak of a chair as Joel rises. " _Bon_. You will fulfill your duties to us, just as we will fulfill our duties to you. A mutual agreement."

"Of course," Haji says.

_Duties?_

The word flits like a trapped dragonfly through her strobing mind. Her heart feels blown-up; palpitating on double-time in her chest.

_Oh god._

Why does it sound like Haji and Joel are holding... negotiations? And why does it sound like Joel has just bought Haji out? Haji wouldn't—he wouldn't do that, would he? He wouldn't go behind her back and make some obscene deal with Red Shield?

Some assurance to keep her in line? To ensure that  _she abides to her duty?_

_No._

He wouldn't. He  _wouldn't._

_"Regardless of what Saya wishes..."_

The sentence conjures a dozen concurrent words.

Hers. His.

_What reason are you fighting for, Haji? You aren't like me. You could have so much more to go on for._

_Saya—if you truly wish for me to leave, I will. Perhaps if you had someone else to help you fulfill your duties—another Chevalier, or—_

A chill swamps her, skin prickling as though stung by a horde of wasps. Reeling, Saya wraps her arms around herself.

_No. No._

Is Haji making some sort of deal to abandon the Mission? To leave  _her_? Would he dare do such a thing? It seems unthinkable. Her emotions shriek in denial, but her mind still throbs to his words.

_I will detach from Red Shield, as stated._

What other explanation could there be?

Then Saya hears footsteps approaching the half-open door. Instantly, she whirls to race down the corridor. At the corner, she stumbles into a bathroom, blinking in the harsh glaring light. Headache pounds behind her eyelids, nausea rising. But when she retches into the toilet, all that comes up is phlegm.

Leaning against the sink, she stares at her humid-eyed reflection. How can this be happening? Bad enough she has no one to turn to, enemies skulking in every shadow, without—

_Haji._

She wants to scream, to break down sobbing on the floor. But the wild emotions seem stoppered. Draining instead into an airless vacuum that leaves her frozen.

Voiceless.

Words reverberate in her skull—her own voice, supplanted by Joel's.

_Only trained dogs are faithful._

_Men... are not._

Staring at the mirror, Saya takes a breath. Rage clouds her vision as she considers a dozen possibilities. To storm back into Joel's office, confront him and Haji. To tear the entire townhouse apart. To run away—find Diva on her own. To dash herself on the street against moving traffic.

Or to—

_No._

She rubs clammy hands against her eyes. No more tears there. No more grief. All of that seems to have sizzled away. Leaving her infused with nothing but the cold finality of action.

 _Duty_.

Saya opens her eyes. They glow a murderous red.

_I know what I must do._

* * *

 


	19. Caesura Part VI

 

* * *

**Caesura VI**

* * *

Afternoon sunlight filtered through the windows of Joel's study.

Joel reclined in an upholstered armchair, his austere face smoothed in repose, as Haji read aloud to him from a scientific treatise. Similar volumes lined the study's bookshelves. But contrary to the homes of most aristocrats, where books were merely for show, like silverware or jeweled snuffboxes, the ones in Joel's study were well-thumbed.

While the less-affluent Goldsmiths—Amshel's branch of the family—worked for a living as scientists and financiers, ( _commercial people_ , Joel and his blue-blooded cohorts termed them), the Goldschmidts were wealthy by dint of birthright, and free to pursue a lifestyle of leisure.

However, unlike most aristocrats, who had little interest in academia, every female Goldschmidt was immaculately well-read, and every male, including Joel and his son, had sat down in university for examinations to get his degree.

 _Sufficiency is never an excuse for ignorance,_  Joel often said.

On autopilot, Haji read through the treatise, its sentences so long and tedious that anyone else would all but lose track of them.

When he'd first been brought here, an unlettered little street-urchin, Joel had personally arranged for a tutor to educate him. Haji was always unsure whether this stemmed from goodwill, or to ensure that his _coarseness_ didn't rub off on Saya. Whatever the case, he had proven to be a natural scholar. Perhaps it was his own thirst to gain knowledge. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that, having grown up in poverty rather than privilege, he found it easy to apply theory into practical life.

Either way, the speed of his progress had been astonishing. His tutors never had to explain anything to him twice; he absorbed every detail like a sponge. He may not have received the fanciful university trimmings of Joel's son and nephews. But he was taught useful science and mathematics, geography and commerce, where most rich boys his age were struggling with florid subjects such as Greek and literature.

By the time he was thirteen, Joel had begun summoning him weekly to his study, to read from a book or newspaper.

Joel always claimed it was because  _I seem to have misplaced my spectacles._  In truth, he was gauging Haji's progress by the letter, to ensure that he was worth the money being invested in him.

That knowledge, more than anything, had spurred Haji into proving himself. By sixteen, Joel was so accustomed to what he called the boy's quick  _narrative flow_ that he had started summoning him to read every afternoon.

And, by twenty-two, it was a long-standing ritual between them.

Today, on the eve of Joel's birthday-banquet, ensuing a discussion of Saya and her  _unique blood_  (a discussion that, all unawares to Haji, Saya had been present to overhear from the door), was one such instance.

Haji had a trick. While his mouth continued to drone on, his mind detached to explore. However many times he'd been here, the study always fascinated him. The decor was magisterial in a way that became either comfortable or intimidating, depending on the mood.

High, lace-curtained windows framed Joel's Alexandrine desk, and silk carpets covered the floor. Bone-china reading-lamps stood beside antique settees and low-slung chesterfields. Between each bookshelf were semi-circular alcoves, bearing glass cases of Indian statuettes and precious Oriental stones. Further in, rare and expensive paintings lined the walls, and over the fireplace hung hunting-trophies from Joel's younger days.

It was from this room that Saya and Haji collected their monthly allowances, here that Joel settled various squabbles between them, and here that, as Haji had matured, he had taken to the older man his various questions and growing pains.

Today, strangely, being in the room filled Haji with nostalgia.

Before coming to the Zoo, the most extravagant place he'd been near was the window of a high-end cafe in Paris, where he'd once pressed his nose to the glass to ogle the trays of colorful pastries. In comparison, Joel's study seemed like the chamber of Croseus.

He recalled all the past occasions he'd been summoned to read to Joel here. Remembered how Amshel had often been present, leaning by the mantel and ready to pounce on Haji for the slightest hitch in vocabulary or accent. Remembered all the times Saya had been here too, a pretty whirlwind of dark hair and starched petticoats, making funny faces at him or flashing her sketchbook open to show him hilarious caricatures of Amshel when the gentlemen weren't looking.

_Saya..._

Wistful, Haji gazed past the window, at the gardens where he'd seen her picking flowers.

Even now, the sight of those sprawling lawns, the geometric topiaries and statues of Greek gods, did his head in. When he'd first arrived here, he'd been baffled by how someone could afford all this. In his mind, if you had a roof over your head, a warm fire, and a bed to sleep in, what more could you need?

The Zoo's labyrinth of rooms, entourage of servants and cellars of wine, had seemed to embody not just wealth—but  _limitless_ opulence.

But the longer he lived here, the more cracks he'd begun to see in the flawless veneer.

Lately, there were rumors of servants mysteriously vanishing from the grounds. Hearses were often seen at the back gates, being loaded with what looked like bloodsoaked sacks. It was whispered that human entrails were often discovered near the Northern ruins, where Saya and Haji were forbidden from entering. Hideous screams were frequently heard there late at night, as if from a tortured ghost. And, at odd times in the day, Haji would catch strains of a haunting, otherworldly song, weaving through the air like a spiderweb.

At first, he'd thought it was all a figment of his imagination. Until the evening he'd heard  _Saya_  humming the song too, and become convinced something  _very_  strange was happening.

But today, Haji didn't want to think about it overmuch. He'd observed that whenever he became too judgmental of the Zoo's eccentricities, Saya grew upset.

Perhaps because, entwined as she was to this place's outlandishness, a criticism of it was, by extension, one of  _her_.

And that was the last thing Haji wanted.

He knew it made her miserable, knowing she was different from everyone else. The servants, Joel's guests, all viewed her as an oddity. A freak. It hurt him to see her so unhappy. As a boy, his family had been persecuted relentlessly for their  _Roma_  roots. He knew how difficult a life of total alienation was.

But it was a million times  _worse_  to think of anyone looking down on  _Saya_ , who, for all her mischief, was an  _innocent_.

The one person who made his life here breathable; the one person whose laughter and sunlit chatter could chase his loneliness away.

She made him feel so glad—so  _lucky_ —to be here.

But why could he never do the same for  _her_?

Haji's eyes caught sight of the blue lake, beyond the gardens. Perhaps he could take Saya boating there, before their picnic? And perhaps he could coax the Cook into packing a jar of blackcurrant jam in their hamper?

If there was anything that would perk Saya up, it was food.

He had a sudden image of her sticking little fingers into the jam, eyes bright and lips all glossy, and smiled.

"You seem to find Wallace's theories on Darwinism quite comical, Haji," Joel said suddenly. "Would you care to share the joke?"

Haji blinked.

The older man was studying him, eyes twinkling.

Embarrassed, Haji cleared his throat. "No—I-I was simply—"

"Never mind. I believe we have read enough for today, haven't we?" Joel snapped his pocketwatch open, the gold cover gleaming in the sunlight. "It is time for you to take Saya for a stroll through the grounds, is it not?"

"Y-yes."

It was unnerving, how well-informed Joel was of Saya's ins and outs around the Zoo. Then again, with a little minx like her, one had to stay vigilant. Just last week, while Joel had been entertaining a group of distinguished French ambassadors, Saya had thought it funny to replace their meringue tarts with soapsuds, and put live frogs in their salmagundi.

The uproar that ensued had sounded just shy of an apocalypse.

Joel seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "See to it that Saya doesn't make mischief at today's banquet, Haji. I know she means no harm with her tricks. All the same, they can be quite embarrassing. There will be a great deal of people over, after all."

"Yes, sir."

It was ironic that Haji was being told to monitor Saya's behavior. Ten years ago, it had been the opposite. But since boyhood, he'd always been a fast mimic. It had been easy for him to pick up the subtleties in accents and social graces: the way Amshel or Joel put on their coats, crossed a corridor, addressed a coachman or offered their arm to a lady.

But the table manners had been harder—particularly for a boy whose only rule concerning food was:  _See it, eat it._

Saya had been the one to teach him everything, such as how to unfurl a napkin and when to remove his gloves, which tablespoon was for soup, and which fork for oysters, why it was rude to roll up his cuffs when carving a roast, why one must never ask for 'meat' instead of 'beef', etc.

This was, Haji reasoned, probably why she became so irritated whenever he told her not to lick jam off her fingers or to talk with her mouth full.

In this, as at cello, the pupil had outperformed the teacher.

"I do not think she can be planning anything  _too_  catastrophic today," Haji said. "She kicked up such a fuss about the fittings of her new dress. Perhaps she'll sit quietly for once, if only so her clothes do not get mussed."

That, and perhaps the sky would rain buckets of champagne, and Amshel would sprout wings and a tiara like the tooth-fairy.

Joel smiled, not missing a beat. "Do you believe that? Or do you simply hope  _I_  will, to soften the blow of Saya's inevitable devilry?"

Abashed, Haji had no answer.

Sighing, Joel snapped his pocketwatch shut. His gaze drifted out the window. "I still remember when I commissioned a seamstress in Paris for Saya's first 'grown-up' wardrobe. She was twelve at the time. She begged for all these pretty silk peplums and corded petticoats. The size of her clothespress was enough to rival a czarina's trousseau. Even her dolls had matching frocks and shoes."

Haji repressed at a smile. Knowing Saya, she had probably been one of those spoilt-rotten princesses who ran when she should've walked, played when she should've slept, and who always asked too many questions, and came flouncing home with dirty cheeks and torn dresses.

Funny.

It wasn't too different from how she was now.

"This picture was taken on her twelfth birthday." Joel indicated to an oval-framed sepia image on his desk. The backdrop depicted the Zoo's stately marble fountain, and bore the photography-studio's curly signature at the bottom. In the center was an apple-faced girl in an old-fashioned dress crisscrossed with ruffles, dark ringlets tumbling over her shoulders. Mischief sparkled in her eyes; the shape of her mouth was blurred with laughter.

"That was the first time she'd stood still long enough to be photographed," Joel said. "But she was so pleased with the results that she conceded to another session the next year. And the next."

He gestured at the other photographs scattered around his desk. Many were of Joel's son, now married and gone, while others, in shaded collodion print, were of Joel's late wife. The rest were of Saya, in different gowns throughout the ages. Sometimes in belled sleeves and fur-lined bonnets, sometimes in beautiful polonaises and fantastic feathered hats. But no matter what style of dress, her face remained untouched—a preternatural  _caesura_.

The only change was in her expression, which grew more furtive, wishful, as time passed.

Pensive, Joel leaned back in his seat. "How I wish I could turn back the years. Try to have raised her as a child—not a pretty doll on the shelf."

Bemused, Haji glanced up. "Sir?"

Joel rubbed his eyes. "At my age Haji, most men look back on their past and regret the things they could not do. But I have no such sorrows. I enjoyed a full life. I do, however, regret certain things I  _did_ do. Things I perhaps should have done differently."

Haji nodded, even as he was bewildered.

It wasn't like Joel to speak so ponderously. Even at the ripe age of seventy-two, he was full of vigor, and looked as if he could cheerfully live to conquer another decade.

"How old were you, when you were first brought here, Haji? Twelve?"

Haji nodded again.

"Yes, of course. I remember. You have been with us almost a decade, haven't you? To me, it does not seem that long. But to you, I imagine it must be a vast amount of time. You have grown up so much since then. And—I know I have never said it, but—Saya has grown up with you. You have been a stabilizing influence on her. Not just because you keep her out of trouble. She is less... aimless when you are with her. Less solitary."

"Sir..." Haji wasn't sure where this conversation was leading. Nor could he explain a sudden desperate anxiety boiling in his chest, as if Joel were reciting a eulogy for a funeral.

His own.

"You know the true reason you were brought here, don't you, Haji?" Joel said. "You know what 'duty' was expected of you?"

Haji's stomach tightened. But he kept the tension off his face. "...Yes."

Joel dropped his gaze, as if ashamed. "These were the reasons given to you, on the surface. But more than that, you were brought here because... I needed a  _tovarisch_  for Saya. A companion."

"Companion?"

"Someone to watch over her, once I am gone. Someone with the decency not to abandon her, or to lock her up the way—" He cut himself off, as if divulging an unspeakable secret. His eyes slipped shut. "I have no regrets, Haji. But there are certain sins I ought not to have committed. Of course, they seem like sins only in retrospect. But when they were happening, it all seemed for the good of progress."

Haji raised an eyebrow. "  _'Sins_ ,' sir?"

This was  _beyond_  bizarre. The Goldschmidts were lax about religion, to put it mildly. Not a single member had a devout bone in their body, save perhaps the housekeeper, a dour red-cheeked matron who muttered nonstop prayers under her breath as if to compensate for the whole family's peccadilloes ** _._**  Even Christmas was celebrated as more a social than spiritual occasion.

Joel sighed again. "I suppose the reason I'm telling this to you is because I can tell no one else. You are objective enough to glean the truth. But young enough that you can judge my crimes without your own eclipsing them. Except I cannot tell you what those crimes are. Perhaps I will, someday. But not yet. Perhaps..." He swallowed. "Perhaps what I really seek is not acknowledgement, but… forgiveness. I want you to forgive me."

"Forgive you?" Haji wondered whether he should call a doctor. No one had ever accused Joel of doddering senility—but what else could explain these ramblings?

The old man must be ill.

"Sir, I think perhaps—"

"I want you to forgive me, Haji," Joel said simply. Hopelessly, "And I want Saya to forgive me. I know… how trapped she must feel in here. I can all but sense it. Who was I to believe I could interfere in the flow of Nature? Soon, she will break free from the Zoo's unnatural confines. Just like her sister. One cannot fight the inevitable. It is only a matter of time before the consequences of your mistakes close on you."

 _Sister_?

Haji shook his head. This was  _insanity_.

In a decisive motion, he rose. "Joel—please keep still. I think I had better fetch a doctor."

Before he could move, the old man's wrinkled hand clamped on his arm. His grip was astonishingly tight. Imploring. "There is no need to fret, Haji. I am perfectly in my senses. I simply need to know something."

Paralyzed, Haji was too stunned to yank his arm fee. Yet.

"Need to know… what, sir?"

Joel's eyes met his, drained and flat. "When… Saya is out there, will you… keep her safe? Will you watch over her?"

"Watch over her?" Did Joel mean during their afternoon stroll? During the party?

Or beyond that?

His expression made it impossible to tell.

Nonetheless, Haji's answer was sincere. "Yes. Of course I will."

_As long as it takes._

"Good." Joel nodded, but still did not let go. "That is good. In this life, you need someone to watch over you. I know Saya can be… difficult, at times. But you have a quiet strength that more than suits her nature. As the years go by, I am convinced you will do right by her. You always fulfill your duty in the end."

"Sir, I am not quite sure what you—" Haji gingerly tugged at his captive arm. Joel's resigned look was bewildering. The old man was clearly suffering some sort of breakdown.

Then, just as suddenly, Joel released him. His expression seemed unaccountably crumpled. For the first time, the full weight of his years seemed to radiate from the lines at the corners of his eyes.

"That is all I ask of you, Haji," he said. "That you take care of Saya. It is my final wish. No matter what else, you must fulfill your duty."

_Duty?_

_Final wish?_

This was  _profoundly_  morbid.

"Sir," Haji's voice raised an octave. "Perhaps I should fetch a physician. Or call Amshel. You do not seem to be in good—"

But Joel shook his head—a vague but final gesture. "I am fine." He cleared his throat, then said again, firmer. "I am fine, Haji. You need not worry. I suppose the day has just been… tiring, is all." He took a breath, then nodded, as if to convince himself as much as the younger man. "Yes, that is it. I am simply tired…"

He remained in that position, hunched over like a penitent, until Haji slowly backed out of the twilit study and shut the door behind him.

It was the last time he would ever see Joel alive.

* * *


	20. Aleatory

**CW: Self-harm, bloodshed.**

* * *

**Aleatory:**  Indeterminate music in which rhythm and form are left to chance.

* * *

Jimi Hendrix's  _Are You Experienced?_  blares from the upstairs apartment.

But stepping into the safe-house, Haji is struck by the subterranean  _silence_.

Glancing around, his eyes narrow with satisfaction. Red Shield has kept their word. The Minox cameras are gone.

But before he can muse over this small triumph, the aroma of blood hits him.

Haji's hand freezes on the doorknob, scalp prickling.

 _Saya's_   _blood_.

In the bathroom, he finds her hunched over a blood-splattered sink. The mirror is broken—punched in by her fist, he realizes. Shards glitter across the tiles. Saya has the biggest piece squeezed in her hand.

No. Not a shard.

A dagger. One of her  _shivs_.

Haji isn't sure how long she's been there. Underlying the blood-scent is the lilt of shampoo; she's showered earlier. Her hair falls in dripping tendrils around her face, body rigid beneath a long gray sweater and black tights. Both are mottled with blood.

As Haji gapes, she whirls to face him. Her face is incandescent with wrath.

" ' _You will fulfill our duties to us, just as we will fulfill our duties to you'_? Well, let's see what duties you fulfill with a  _severed neck_!"

"Saya—"

Before he can react, she charges at him. One crippling blow  _slams_  him against the wall. He blinks through a riot of stars, grabbing her fist before she draws back for a second punch.

"Saya—what are you  _doing_?"

But her expression makes that clear enough.

She wants to  _kill_  him.

Tearing away from his grip, Saya raises the dagger. "Out of everyone against me—why did it have to be  _you_?  _Why didn't you just_ say _you wanted to leave_?" Her hand is a blur of red-silver, bloodstained metal stabbing down.

In a blink, Haji evades. The blow barely misses his artery. The jagged edge scrapes his collarbone. Blood splatters. Alarmed, he throws out an arm, sending her leaping back.

His worst fears have been realized.

She has lost her  _mind_.

"Saya—what are you  _talking_  about?"

" _Your meeting with Joel_!  _I was there! I heard you both_!"

"You heard—?" What had she heard? Disjointed pieces from the looks of it. Otherwise she wouldn't be taking his head off this way. "Saya—wait. You don't understand—"

" _Don't give me that_!" Again, she launches herself at him. On instinct, Haji ducks. Saya lands hard on her palms, the dagger clacking against the tiles. Springs back up to wheel on him.

Haji raises an arm to ward her off. "Saya—please  _stop_!"

" _Don't_   _tell me what to do_! I am not  _deaf or blind_! I will not let you  _plot behind my back_!"

She lunges faster than the eye can track, her full-on blow snapping his head back like a punchball. White-hot sparks burst everywhere. Feinting, Haji swipes his foot across her ankles, toppling her to the floor. But she is upright in a flash, tackling him so hard they both drop across the tiles.

They struggle for a moment, heaving and grunting. It feels almost like a sparring match. But there is a difference.

Saya never screamed during any of their matches. Never used the kind of words she's using now. Going all the way from German to French to English, calling him a  _schwanzlutscher_  and an  _enculé_ and a _motherfucker._

He has never heard her say such words; never even imagined she  _knew_  them.

Teeth gritted, Haji manages to gain the upper-hand, pin her under him.

"Saya! Please stop this! I haven't done anything!"

She twists wildly, the  _shiv_  still clenched in her bloodslick palm. " _Don't lie to me! I was there! I saw you!_ "

"You don't know what you saw! Saya—I swear, I haven't gone against you! I was in Joel's office—I  _admit_  this. But it was for something else entirely! Please—you have to calm down."

She shoves a knee against his groin, springing free. " _Don't lie to me_! I  _know_  what you were doing! I will not close my eyes while you  _betray_  me again!"

" _Again_?" Haji's voice is hoarse with pain and shock. "When have I betrayed you? Saya—I admit there are certain things during your Long Sleeps that I do not tell you. But when it comes to the mission, I have never kept anything from you.  _Never._ "

"Y-you're lying!" She leans against the wall, her half-hunch highlighting her desperation. The room is suffused with the spastic electricity of her rage. "I was  _right there_! I heard everything!"

"What did you hear? Saya, if you knew even a quarter of what was discussed, you'd realize how  _insane_ this is. I did not go against you."

She shakes her head, as if to dispel his words. But her temper is transmogrifying; violence and violation draining into doubt. Only the tears remain, streaked like rain across pale cheeks.

"Saya." Cautiously, Haji rises. "If I have no proof to back myself up, then use your instincts. I was summoned to Joel's office for a status report. And I made a deal with him. To help Red Shield's teams in Vietnam, during your Long Sleep. Provided that he let you be. Ask Joel yourself, if it will convince you."

"You—" Saya's mouth quivers. She crams her fist against it. He sees the conflict in her face: to trust, reject. "How—how can I believe you?  _I heard_ —"

"You heard wrong." He comes closer, laying a gentling hand on her shoulder. "Please, Saya. I am telling the truth. I have not betrayed you."

She swats him off. " _No! No!_  I  _saw_ —"

"What? Joel and myself in his office? And so you concluded I was scheming against you?"

Saya chokes, swallowing. And nods.

Haji's eyes widen. "Saya, why would you think that? Have I given you any reason to believe—?"

"It—it's not that." She squeezes her eyes shut; self-restraint crumbling in a spate of emotion. "I-I woke up at the townhouse, and you weren't there. I wanted to talk to you. I kept—remembering all these awful things. At Staten Island, and—before that. I-I thought if you were nearby, they'd go away. I thought I'd feel better."

"So you went to Joel's study?"

She hiccoughs. "I saw you talking with Joel. I—I heard you saying—that you would detach from Red Shield. Because there was a limit to everything."

"And you assumed I meant my time with you?"

Her eyes snap on his. Red-edged, glistening with fury. " _What else_  could it be? You must hate your life with me! I'm nothing anyone should want—human or Chiropteran. I've caused so much destruction! Isn't what happened at Staten Island  _proof_  of that?"

Haji winces. "You are only trapped by circumstance in the war, Saya. We both are. And I understand that my meeting with Joel seemed suspicious. But I did not go against you. I swear." In a tone of forced neutrality, he relates the bargain in Joel's office to her. Hoping, if nothing else, to calm her down with soothing words.

As he talks, Saya keeps her eyes on the floor. Choked sobs wrench her frame; hair falling in soaked tangles around her face. He aches to gather her in. But she will never allow it.

"The cameras in the apartment are also gone," he says. "You cannot feel them any longer, can you?"

"What?" Saya blinks, as if called out of a trance. Glances around, finally cognizant of the silence.

"Red Shield is willing to compromise with us, so long as we guarantee our services," Haji tells her quietly. "I know it is little better than a  _cul de sac._  But at the moment, we have few other choices. Please, Saya. It's for the best."

Saya looks woozy. "You—you agreed to help Red Shield in Vietnam, during my Long Sleep?"

"I did."  _For your sake._

At this rate, the words will be etched on his tombstone.

Somehow, his answer only makes her angrier. "Why didn't you  _tell_  me first? What made you think you could make this decision without even  _asking_  me? You are  _my_  Chevalier above all else!  _Did you forget that_?"

He flinches, caught off-guard by the fierce rage in her eyes. She is right. He took it upon himself to make a unilateral decision, without even consulting her. At the time, it seemed the smartest thing to do. But to her, he knows it must seem like just another form of coercion.

Another betrayal.

"I'm sorry, Saya," he says. "I made the choice without thinking. But it was not out of any wish to harm you. You have to believe that."

Her eyes are wet and empty. She swallows, won't look at him.

"Saya?" Heart hammering, he tries to engage her gaze. "Saya— _please_. Do not do this to me. I have not gone against you. I swear."

No answer.

"Saya?" Panicking, he takes her shoulder. "Please. You do not have to worry. I am telling the truth. Whatever else, you are all right with me."

This snaps her out of it. "All right?" Her wild eyes take in his bloodstained shirt. " _All right_? How can you  _say_ that _? Are_ you  _all right?_ "

"Saya, y-you just got a few blows in. Nothing happened." Even as he speaks, he tastes the irony. Their fight was an  _aleatory—_ pivoting on chance. It is only 'all right' because she was deflected on time.

Had she been even an ounce angrier—

He shudders.

It is eerie to live with someone for so long, but never realize how much turmoil—raw  _hatred_ —they contain.

Even eerier to realize, if not for well-timed words, he might be dead by now.

Saya seems to be thinking the same thing. Her eyes swim with fresh tears. "Oh God." Before Haji can reach for her, she backs away. "Ohgod. Ohgod." The words run together as if glued. She gulps, over and over, like a drowner. "Red Shield were right. They were right about everything. I  _am_  as bad as those Chiropterans I hunt.  _I nearly_ —"

"Saya, sssh. There is no need to get worked up—"

" _No need_?" She gestures wildly. "I nearly slit your  _throat_! I-I can't be any good to you like this!  _You aren't safe with me_!"

"It was a misunderstanding. There is no reason to—"

"Is that how you're going to keep writing off everything I do?  _An accident_?  _A misunderstanding_? What is  _wrong_  with you?  _When are you going to get angry_?"

"I will not 'get angry' out of petulance, Saya. Especially when all you want is punishment to soothe your self-hatred." She flinches, opening her mouth to deny. But he cuts her off. "Please. This  _was_  a misunderstanding. Regardless of what you might think. You are not in the most stable frame of mind. But that does not mean I abandon you."

" _No_ —it means you should  _stay_  and subject yourself to  _stabbings and punches and_ —" Teeth clenched, she slams her fist into the wall. The tile cracks like ice under the blow. Flinching, Haji backtracks, half-certain she must be picturing his face there. Or her own.

But when he sees the blood stream down her knuckles, he gasps. The  _shiv_  is still gripped in her palm, slicing into skin.

" _Saya_ —"

She evades his grasping hands. Squeezes the  _shiv_  tighter between her fists. Haji watches it crumble to stardust, metal slivers shredding her flesh. Blood splatters the front of her sweater. The scent of it is dizzying.

"Saya—stop! What are you  _doing_?"

He moves for her again, but she swats him away. Unsteady as she is, she can still land a blow. Haji reels from the backhanded jab, nearly slipping on the wet tiles. Then Saya is crumpling down, knees crunching on the fallen glass.

Blood drips from her torn hands; her eyes are wild and teary.

"It keeps closing up. Why does it keep closing up?"

"Saya…" Shakily, Haji reaches for her.

She breaks from his hold. " _Why_? Why can't I just die this way? I shouldn't be alive. I shouldn't even  _be_  here. Not after everything I keep doing wrong.  _Why is this body always holding me back_?"

"Sssh—" Gently, Haji takes her bleeding hands. Uncurls the trembling fingers, studying the shards buried in her palms. More blood wells, and an answering surge of sympathy churns through him. He fights the urge to bring the scored flesh to his lips, kiss them like a child's.

"Please," he breathes. "Don't do this to yourself."

Saya won't look at him. Her whole body rattles as if it might shatter. "I just want it to stop. I can't do this anymore. I can't I can't I can't—"

"Saya, please. Hurting yourself isn't going to solve anything. There's enough pain already."

"I deserve it."

" _No_. No, you don't. Please stop saying that."

Saya breathes in sobs, her entire frame jerking with the force of them. But when Haji gathers her in, she doesn't resist anymore. Her jittery voice rebounds off the tiles. "Haji—I'm so sorry."

"Sorry—?"

"I'm the one who started this war. Everyone whose dead because of these Chiropterans—they're all my fault. But I didn't have to drag you into this too. I had no right. Not when all I do is vent my frustrations on you. I'm so sorry—"

Haji's eyes burn.

_God. Not this again…_

Right then, he would give anything to take that pain from her shoulders. To just  _make everything all right._

He is gladder than ever that those Minox cameras have been removed. If Red Shield had witnessed this terrible act of self-mutilation, it would have verified Joel's opinions on Saya's  _instability_. Convinced him to tighten the choke-chains.

"Saya…"

"Don't—call me that." Her forehead rests on his chest. Tears seep into the material of his shirt. "I'm not—Saya anymore. I don't know  _what_  I am, but it's not Saya. This  _thing_ inside me—it's nothing but a monster."

"Don't say that. You are Saya. You always will be. Your spirit, your strength—it's not so easy to destroy."

She shakes her head. "It  _is_  destroyed. Everything. And it's all my fault. All these people who've been killed. Who  _will_  be killed. They're all on me."

She sounds, Haji thinks, not like a grown woman repenting past sins, but a child. A terrified, mentally-damaged child who has done something irrevocably wrong, and is now sure everything about  _herself_ must be wrong too.

This is what the war has done to her. She was nothing but a child when she'd set Diva free. Had watched Joel die before her eyes, her home burn, her best friend turn into something beastly, all in the span of a few days.

Then been thrust into an endless vendetta of bloodshed, without the chance to grow any further.

"Saya—please. It is true that everything happens because something else happened first. But to make a unilateral decision to blame yourself for all of it—can't you see how perverse that is?"

Saya shakes her head again. Refutation, denial, pulsing through every breath. "Haji… y-you should go."

"Where? Outside? Do you want to be alone?"

"No. I meant—" She lets off a loud sniffling slurp, rubbing her nose on his shirt. He tries to ignore it. "You should leave me. Go while you still can."

He goes perfectly still. Part of him wonders if her attack was a subconscious ploy to do just that—drive him off. Given her talent for perversity, he would not put it past her.

"Saya. Please do not start with this again. I am not leaving you."

He expects her to meet his eyes, but she doesn't. Stares instead at her hands, held tight in his. The fluorescent lights turn them sepulchrally-white. As he watches, one of the red wounds closes, smooth as melted glass.

"But if you stay with me, there'll be nothing but pain for you. You'd only end up getting hurt. You should leave."

"Saya—I cannot do that. I am in this war for the same reasons as you. It is not up to me to decide if I want no part of it or not."

"I-I know. But that doesn't mean you should stay with me. You can help Red Shield. Go with David's team. They need the extra muscle. You'd have a purpose with them."

"And what about you?"

Her mouth crumples. Face so wet it is almost as if her eyes are melting. "There's no reason to worry about me. Red Shield already thinks I'm a killing machine. I must be. I've brought ruin to everyone around me—there's nothing  _human_  about me anymore."

Haji's throat cramps. Unable to help himself, he brushes the water from her lashes with a thumb. "You would not be crying like this if it were true, Saya."

"Don't—say that. I ruined your life too. I made you into something you never asked to be. I'm the reason Joel shipped you to the Zoo at all—the reason he—"

"Saya." He presses his cheek to her slippery-soft hair. Her skin smells of soap and bitter anguish. "I may not have asked to be your Chevalier. But there is not a second that I have regretted it. Just as I never regretted being brought to you at the Zoo."

"What?" She draws back to stare, tears sluicing her cheeks.

"Saya—y-you don't know what kind of life I had before I came to you. In the world I lived, people died all the time. Not like now—they died from starvation. Disease. If I'd never met you, I could have contracted cholera, or influenza. Died of typhus. Like my brothers. Like my sisters. Our family lived in a state of perpetual terror. We barely ever had enough to eat—and what little we did was so filthy that death was preferable. Before meeting you, I never expected to survive beyond the age of twenty."

"H-Haji—" Saya's eyes are like two fresh bruises.

Haji realizes she's unnerved by this revelation of his background. He cannot blame her. At the Zoo, she had vague ideas—naïve one-dimensional notions that a sheltered girl might—about the poverty he'd come from.

But Haji never shared the grittier details with her. Not because, after coming to the Zoo, he'd disassociated himself from that era. The opposite—when surrounded by the Zoo's luxuries, he liked to remember the privations of his childhood more than ever.

It intensified his gratitude at being brought to such a place; at having the opportunity to live there with someone like Saya.

"Y-You never told me," Saya says.

"There was no reason to. It was a very long time ago."

"But the way you're living now—all the pain I put you through—you can't say it's any better, Haji. You can't say this life isn't worse than the one you had before."

He feared she'd take that route. Drawing her closer, he brings her quivering hand to his mouth. "Saya, it is not up to me to compare whether one life is better than the other. All I recall is, when I was with my family, we drifted aimlessly, settling only where there was food or money to obtain. It's not the same thing with you. This time around, at least I have a purpose."

"What purpose?"

He thumbs the tears from her overheated cheeks. "Taking care of you."

"Haji—" She stares at him, awash and bewildered. Then her lip flutters, and her eyes go swimmy. She leans in as if about to collapse. Haji's arms tighten around her, prepared to hold her as long as need be until she's cried herself out. Right now, he senses that she will be open to anything he tells her. Sympathetic. Part of him wants to confess what he did in Berlin. Beg for her forgiveness, and ease his own gnawing guilt. This is as good an opening as any.

But then Saya's fingers tighten on his shirt, breath closing warm and ragged on his face. The first touch of her mouth on his—hot, vibrant, delicious—sucks all thought from his mind. Haji jerks as if galvanized; Saya only shivers and presses closer. Her whole body pulses heat, made all the warmer from a steamy shower and tears.

Her kiss, though clumsy, tastes of fatal promises.

Abruptly, he jerks back.

"S-Saya—what are you—?"

Her blood-smeared hands curl tighter into his lapels, either trying to pull him closer or raise herself higher, or both. This time her lips part on his. The sudden pressure of her hot mouth and wet tongue blasts a wave of disorientation through him. A sharp noise rumbles from his throat—almost a groan. Saya's answering mewl melts his skin to caramel, more sensation than sound.

Their lips part with a slick  _pop_  as he wrenches away.

"Saya—wh-what are you  _doing_?"

She blinks rapidly, flushing all over. He smells the rising aroma of desire beneath the blood. Isn't sure if it is hers, or  _his_.

"I-I'm sorry. I just—wanted to—" She takes a breath, shutting her eyes. When they open again, he sees a strange wildness there. "I wanted for you to think about something else. I wanted for  _us_  to feel something else. I-I don't know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

Haji  _knows_  she shouldn't have. Every synapse of sanity  _screams_  it.

But that cannot account for why his fingers are skimming along her arms and back, more coaxing than restraining. He can still taste her lips on his. Feel her warmth bleeding through the sweater.

A disembodied voice inside him, the same that begs for blood when he is hungry, that howls to maim, tear,  _kill_  when he is incensed, that draws his gaze far too long to the veins of a pretty woman's neck or his body to the nocturnal glow of the moon, hisses:

_More._

He shakes his head clear.

"Saya—th-there is no reason for you to do this. You're tired from this whole day. You need to rest. You'll see things differently tomorrow. You will realize there's no need to—"

"That's not what this is about." Saya's voice is thick with tears. He smells her blushing, feels it in the hot palm splayed across his cheek. "I've been so cruel to you. I'm cruel to myself too. But after what I've done, that's what I deserve. I have no reason to take it out on you, though. I-I want you to feel something different."

What, Haji wonders, is she trying to say?

Does it even  _matter_ , anything she's saying in this rattled frame of mind?

His every rational instinct—every lingering vestige of decency—orders him to put immediate space between them. To play the gentleman to a troubled lady; wrap up her wounds, kiss her baby-fingers and lull her into sleep.

After his lapse in Berlin, he is not worthy of such kindness from her.

Not worthy of  _her_.

Gently, he draws back. Lowers his gaze to her bloodied hands, clasped lightly in his own. "Are these still hurting you?"

Blinking, Saya stares at her palms. "N-no. They're already closed up." The corner of her mouth tics, and she swallows. "They don't even sting anymore. I wish they did. If they stayed open, maybe I could bleed all this filthy blood out of me. Maybe… I'd finally be free."

"Saya—"

Why is this statement more unnerving than all the others?

Is it because, as her Chevalier, he shares the same blood, and cannot bear to find fault in what binds him so intimately to her? Or is it because its spicysweet aroma goads his instincts in the most primeval way—leaves him powerless against a longing so natural it can only be  _right_?

Except it  _isn't_  right— _he_  has no right to want Saya that way. She's been so through so much already; he  _cannot_  burden her with his own selfish desires when countless others are doing the same.

Quite possibly, she doesn't even know what she's really asking for.

What she's willing to  _give_.

"Saya, please." Even as he speaks, he's filled with a witless longing he fights to repress. "Let this be. You're tired. You should get some rest. We do not—"

"No, Haji. I know what I'm saying." Her eyes are dark. Full of pleading. She draws one of her hands from his, brings the fingers to his lips. They are still slick with blood. Haji fights the urge to open his mouth, suck them in.

"We're here together in this awful place," Saya says, and he knows she doesn't mean this city. "Everything's hopeless and ruined. But… that doesn't mean  _we_  have to be. I'd like to do something good for you. Please, I need to be good to you."

 _Be_ good _?_

_What is she—?_

It hits him then, with the force of a pianoforte to the skull, what this is about.

Closure.

She wants to be good to him, not just for his sake, but her own. To prove to herself that she isn't the complete monster she believes herself to be. Because a  _true_  monster wouldn't offer consolation, nor allow herself to be consoled.

And just the fact that she  _is_  asking, that she's letting herself be made vulnerable …

_If I refuse her, I won't just be rejecting her._

_I'll be confirming all those terrible things she believes about herself._

_But if I give in…_

_If I give in…_

"Please, Haji." Her voice wavers, but her eyes never leave his. His yearning for her—always palpitating—volcanoes with every breath. "Please. Just do this for me?"

Haji swallows.

It is almost like that chilling promise he made to her on the train. Spurred by the impetus of a mercy-kill.

He yields only because he can't bear for her to hate herself any further.

This time, when Saya draws closer, when she frames his face between her palms, swollen lips hovering so close—it is Haji's own mouth that closes the gap between them, helplessly drinking in hot tongue and tears and breath.

* * *

 


	21. Fantasia

 

* * *

 **Fantasia:** a free-form musical composition incorporating familiar themes.

* * *

The brass bed—once a no-man's land of  _sleep_  and  _Saya_ —is now a terrain of bodyheat.

The dresser lamp is on, its golden light flecking a dusty mirror. Arched over Saya, Haji sees their reflections in it. Extraneous fabric is caught everywhere between them. His coat and shirt are puddled on the floor, but he's given up on shaking the trousers off.

For now.

Saya's fingers stroke his face, twine in his hair. Her mouth is wet and hot on his—blinding everything around him to  _red_. Her big sweater makes her seem larger than she is. Hands reverently coasting her body, Haji reacquaints himself with her smallness. Stroking where there is taut muscle, kneading where there are soft curves. Her black tights turn out to be stockings—she has nothing on beneath. When his cool fingers slip from her knee to the warm skin of her inner-thigh, she gasps into his mouth.

Haji hears the sound as if from underwater. Blood  _gallops_  in his veins, crushing self-restraint. He tells himself to slow down. But all he can focus on is her delicious lips and slipping tongue; the kittenish noises she makes in her throat and how she moves beneath him. Desperate to devour every inch of her, to feel and taste everything from her curling toes to her tense legs to the slope and swell of belly and breasts. Wild hunger grips him, even as he tries to pull back.

Their lips part wetly as he grips her sweater's hem. Panting, Haji presses his forehead to hers. Saya's eyelashes kiss his cheek, lips brushing his jawline. Her pulse makes everything  _thrum_.

"Oh God," she gasps.

"Saya," he says, and thrills at how she shivers beneath him. "Are—are you sure about this?"

"Haji— _yes_."

His fingers inch the sweater higher. "Can I—take this off?"

No words. Just a slurred  _Mmm_. She stretches her arms over her head. Lips swollen, eyes all glassy, as if fearing he will reject her. Obliging, he drags the fabric up and off her body. Her hot skin on his coolness is a  _shock_. So long since he's seen her naked; neither smeared in amniotic fluid from her cocoon, nor bloodstained from battles. Bright red blotches her already pink cheeks, spreading down to her breasts. The vein in her neck tics, periwinkle-blue. Greedily, Haji licks up the arc. Gnaws the point where jaw melts into neck, her blood a raspberry-sweet aroma beneath.

Saya sighs, tossing her head. Warm hands stroke the lines of his back, cupping the sharp shoulderblades. Her nails  _dig_  into his flesh. Haji hisses, sliding his hands up her sides to encompass her breasts in both palms. Her heartbeat half-makes her skin vibrate. He dips his head, swirling his slick tongue across each nipple, until her breath comes in hot matching gusts. Gulps them into his mouth one at a time, suckling as if to draw her entire body in.

Saya mewls, rippling under him. The sound—shocking, delicious—suffuses him with greed. Slipping one arm under her back to lift her, he feeds harder on her breasts, more hungrily. Not stopping until she is squirming from one side to the other. Hands scrabbling at his shoulders, his hair, short raw cries shuddering out of her. Each sound and movement sets his blood alight. It is only when her struggles turn half-frantic—edging on a stuttered litany of  _please please please_ —does he release her.

Panting, she slumps back against the pillows. The look in her eyes is nothing he's seen before. Darker than loneliness. Deeper than lust. Heat boils off her, but it feels so  _innocent_. She seems stunned by her own body, stunned by its sensations.

Overwhelmed.

"Haji," she says, as if begging for mercy.

Perhaps she is.

Forcibly, Haji slows his breathing. Stifles the impatience as a dizzying tenderness takes hold. Gently, he takes the small hand tangled in his hair, and the other white-knuckling the sheets. Presses a worshipful kiss to each palm. They are still blood-smeared. He tongues it off impulsively. The taste hits him like pure adrenaline—her life-force made liquid. Craving more, he licks the creases of her palms, the webbing between her fingers. Sucks each digit into his mouth, one by one, swallowing every saltysweet drop into himself.

Saya shivers to the sensation. Then her fingers tighten on his. She presses them to her belly. Lower.

"Here…Please." It is a petition.

He seals a trembling palm between her thighs. Testing her with one gentle finger, two. Saya jerks in his arms, whimpering. He knows she probably hasn't had anything larger than her own fingers down here. "Ssh," he soothes, and covers her gasping mouth with his. Cool fingers, slightly callused at the tips, explore her gently. Dabbling in liquid heat, learning what pleases her. Drinking her cries on shudders.

Flushed, fevery, she twists against his hand. He  _feels_  the tension shimmering through her. Such a great cache, stockpiled without outlet. How much hotter would she burn, if he—? The idea barely blooms before he is tonguing a wet trail down her body. Biting her navel, sliding slower. Mouth pressing, cool and wet, to where his fingers stroke between her thighs, then slightly above.

" _Ha-Haji._ "

Saya jerks beneath him, thighs enveloping his head. Tensing dangerously, more in resistance than encouragement, even as she twists under his teasing fingers, his lapping tongue. The heat of her is  _intense_. He feels it eddying through his whole body. Swamping him with want. Peeling her legs away from his head, he holds her down. Freeing her to shudder and mewl and claw at the sheets, head tossing back and lips parting in a succulent 'O' as he delves in deeper.

God, all the times he's fantasized about her this way. Spilled across the bed, entirely open to him; the plane of her pulsing belly superseded by rising breasts and uptilted chin. Sweat blooms across her body—glittery star-clusters. She breathes in high pleading gasps in time with her moans. Those  _sounds_  undo him more than anything. His own breathing sharpens, superseding hers as if  _he_  is being tortured.

He wants to know how she looks when she spends. How she moves, what kinds of noises she makes. Wants her to forget about the war—if only for a few seconds.

But then Saya thrashes under him, clutching his head. Forcibly, she tears his mouth away, sobbing, "Please—please, stop—I-I can't—!"

He reads the fear clearly in her eyes, and wonders from what. Fear of losing control? Or of crossing some threshold she feels unworthy of?

"Saya," he says. "It's all right. Just—"

But then she is dragging his head up, filling his mouth with deep gulping kisses. Erasing all thought. One little hand trips between them. Fumbles for the clasp of his trousers. Unlike him, she asks no permission.  _Click-click-snap_  go belt and buttons. She yanks the zipper clumsily to circle him in a hot palm.

Haji breaks the kiss on a jittery gasp. Her fingers tighten in a sword-grip that bursts stars behind his eyes. His voice is a choked plea. "S-Saya—"

Lip bit, she fastens her gaze on his. Slides her grip shakily down, and up, watching his face alternate between pleasure and desperation. Squeezes until his taut thighs quiver and he  _groans_. Control slips further as she guides him awkwardly between her legs, so hot skin brushes hot skin with a liquid kiss. Just holding him there. Rubbing back and forth with a tantalizing lightness that makes them both shiver. Eyes squeezed shut, Haji buries his face in her hair. Struggling, over their sawing gasps, to blot out the  _wrongness_  of this—think only of how long it's been since he was touched this way.

And tonight, the thrill spirals higher, knowing this is  _Saya_.

Saya, whom he almost lost in today's battle.

Whom he may still lose, when their mission ends.

Dimly, he feels her kicking at his pants, toeing the fabric down and off. Then her lips brush his ear. Dirty words breathed in a kitty-whisper, so soft he may have fantasized them. His eyes open to take her in. So tiny and succulent. A dozen fantasies strobe. Of hooking her legs over his shoulders, fusing himself to her in one stroke. Of rolling her onto her belly, covering her like a beast. He wants it fast and frantic; wants it syrupy and slow. Wants to show her everything she does to him, and the million things he  _aches_  to do for her.

Except she is not ready for that. And if he ruins this for her, he will not forgive himself.

"Not—like this," he says.

"Wh-what?"

He eases her gently onto her side. And, spooning her, lifts her upper-leg, draping it along the back of his. Saya tenses, then acquiesces, cradled in his arms, back to his chest. His palms are wide enough to span her ribcage, the curve of her hips. She radiates anxiety. But when he lays his face alongside hers, she flushes, lip caught. And nods.

The gesture breaks his control. He slips one hand between their bodies, and she gasps as he eases gently into her. Hot. Slick. Millimeter by millimeter. Her hands reach blindly around to pluck at his arms, his waist. He feels her quivering as she gives way, hears it in her whimpers, her thudding heart.

 _Slow,_  an inner-voice screams.  _Go very slow._

"H-Haji—!" He's not even halfway there when a strangled noise escapes her. She tenses as if facing some enemy slightly too much to take on alone. "I—ohgod. I-Is there more? I—"

He winces, terror warring with desire. What if this is horrible for her?

"J-just a little. Can you—?"

And then she is straining up to kiss him, openmouthed and wet. Sucking his tongue deep into her mouth as her arms and legs and body pull at him, vibrating and thrumming—and all restraint collapses.

Gripping her hips, he pushes all the way in, thumbs fitted into the dimples of her lower-back. Colors spangle everywhere. He shudders and gasps in spite of himself. Saya's right hand flies up as if poised on a tightrope. He catches it in his own, fingers lacing tight. Her left hand scrabbles unsteadily at the sheets, stockinged thighs trembling against his.

"Oh," she sobs, in vibrating shock. "Oh."

Delirious, Haji drops kisses through her hair. Ear, neck, back, shoulders, anywhere he can reach. "Are you—all right?"

She nods, shakes her head. Assurance. Negation. His lips brush her cheek, and he tastes tears. Terror paralyzes him. "Sh-should I stop?"

Every muscle in his body  _screams_  no. But if she says so, he will.

Saya half-turns to meet his gaze. Eyelashes webbed. Bee-stung lips quivering. "No—" she muffles a sob. Hides it in a kiss to his mouth. Another, another, until he's thirstily sipping each breath. "Please—please don't."

It is almost a sanction. He slips his left arm under her ribs, drawing her closer. Brings their joined right hands down to her belly, clasped in supplication. Lying on his side, he's pressed tight against her, legs intertwined, her hair sliding deliciously over his chest. Wearing her like a second-skin.

 _I love you._  He wants to say it, but can't.

Sighing, he kisses the shell-like ear peeping through her hair. Whispers instead how warm she feels. She flushes magnificently, top to toe, melting to soft curves and slick heat against him. He stays with her that way, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing. Fighting friction—fighting not to lose control—until she has relaxed.

If it still hurts, she no longer shows it. But he doubts she is getting much pleasure out of this, either.

Questioningly, he presses a kiss to her shoulder, then a deeper one to her neck. She lets off a shaky sigh. "I-I'm all right, Haji. You can—keep going."

His body is past ready.  _Begging_  to move. Still, he falters. "Are—are you sure?"

"Mmm." She swallows. "I-I'll just—lie back a-and—think of England."

"England?" He winces. "God. Why should— _anyone_  think of England?"

She makes a small noise. It takes him a moment to recognize it as a laugh. The sound—so sweet and unexpected—diffuses the last ounce of strain between them. Fills him with inexplicable joy. Even though it doesn't mean anything; even though this brief moment of warmth isn't going to reverse anything so terrible as the war, or decades of death and suffering.

But right now, he doesn't care.

Right now, everything is  _perfect_.

"Saya." He whispers it. Over and over, as he starts, very carefully, to rock. "Saya."

Her little fingers tighten on his. She makes a tiny cry in her throat—half-strain, half-pleading. He fights to keep his movements gentle, insinuating. More ballast than force. Immersed into nothing but her exquisite heat and pulse. Watching her face as he finds a rhythm, an angle, that suits her. Keeping to it, until, bit by bit, Saya's tense expression melts to parted lips and broken sighs.

In the mirror, their reflections are a gold-on-white symbiosis. Saya's head lolls indolently on the pillows, eyelashes teary, small pink mouth half-open, gasping. Her body is a visual fantasia—Baudelaire's  _Les M_ _é_ _tamorphoses du Vampire_. Mesmerized, Haji runs their linked hands from the crux of her hip to her thigh. Their reflections echo the motion—doppelgangers.

Then Saya's eyes catch his in the mirror. Her flush blazes, it seems, all the way to her center. He half-expects her to wrench her gaze away. Instead she stares. Eyes full of scandal, fascination, and he wonders if she sees herself as  _he_  can. Profaned yet pristine. A million emotions in her red eyes.

For all the horrors she's endured, that aliveness in her can never wane.  _She_  cannot be extinguished.

He wants to tell her that, and more. But words are impossible. Trails their joined hands across her belly instead, the sensation making her shiver. Glides them down between her thighs. In the mirror, Saya flushes, lip bit. He feels her simmering. Emboldened, he sucks her earlobe between his teeth, at the same time strumming their linked fingers where she's stretched wet and hot and open around him. Saya mewls, tossing her head. Clenches around him with a pressure that dizzies.

" _Haji_."

He hides his gasp in the crook of her neck. Plays her as if she's some fine new instrument he's learning—lyre if not cello. Saya whimpers, rocking against him, a liquid undulation like a bellydancer's. Head rolling on his shoulder as if in a fever. Pressure builds at the base of his spine. Lights him up until his nerves  _sing_. He's eased her onto her belly before he realizes it. Letting her take his full weight now—chest to back, arms on arms, the slope of backside to groin. Covering her completely.

The mattress begins to rock beneath them with every movement. Desperation transmitting itself through the pulses of his hips, through Saya's sweet cries resonating around him. Her whole body has gone sweat-slippery. Trembling like an earthquake.

Concerned, he slows down. "S-Saya…?"

"No—don't—" She twists under him. Fingers tightening on his hand, pressed between her thighs. " _Please_ —I-I…"

_Oh God._

She is close. He feels all her muscles palpitating. Fighting for release.

All control snaps. Teeth clenched, he drives into her in one resonating stroke. Pushing to the extreme, drawing back so that he is almost free of her searing heat, and Saya whimpers and bucks to keep him inside her. Then in again, hot and fast, finding the sweetspot that makes her shudder; makes her bury her face in the pillow to muffle her sobs. Sweat drips, fusing him to the armature of her body. Reality dissolves into the dance of their entwined fingers, intensifying movement and delicious slippery friction.

He never wants to stop. Never wants to let her go. A million words wing through his overheated mind. Filthy things. Worshipful things. Endless mantras of love, agony, despair. Everything he  _yearns_  to tell her—but cannot.

Beneath him, Saya writhes, neck arched, sweat-slick hair splayed across the pillows. Breath leaves her in sobbing gasps, as if she's crying. Haji hears himself making the same sound, the pleasure so intense it is all he can do not to  _howl_. Working her with his body, their joined hands, until she peaks in relentless snapping spasms—once, twice, thrice. The pressure paints  _red_  behind his eyes. He gasps, seizing up, his moan blending with hers—a dissonant crescendo.

Long plummet, like off the cliff at the Zoo. But the landing is gentle.

Bonelessly, they slump into the pillows. Gulp air as if resurfacing from drowning. Heart pounding, Haji lets all logic unspool. Body wrapped around Saya's as if melded to her; one cool hand cinching her breast, cool tip of nose parting her hair. He feels her still trembling from her upswell. Feels, from his own chest, a satiated purr.

"Haji…" Her voice is muffled by the pillows. "…I-I can't breathe."

Wincing, he rolls off her. Turns her gently around to face him. Her hair sticks everywhere to her disoriented face. Skin slick and flushed—but already cooling. An eerie premonition rises. But then she breathes his name again, and they are kissing, insatiable, excessive, words melting on his tongue.

His body still vibrates to her touch. At the same time, he is filled with a tenderness that tightens his throat. Sighing, he rolls over, taking her with him, so she lies sprawled on his chest. Breaks the kiss to smooth her hair back with both hands, memorizing her moist pink face and half-lidded eyes.

"Are you… all right?"

She nods, swallowing. Her heartbeat is erratic. Again, Haji feels that premonition. He  _knows_  when their pulses lose rhythm.

He kisses her teary eyelashes. "Do you want a drink of water? You must be thirsty from so much… crying."

She shakes her head, even as she licks her dry lips. Her fingers comb back his sweaty hair. Trace the shape of his mouth. Haji wonders why she seems so pensive. Was he too rough? Did he hurt her too much?

Before he can ask, she draws away. Sits up gingerly, gathering the smeared sheet around her. The scent of misgiving displaces the sweat lacing the air.

"I-I'm sorry," she says.

"What?"

"I shouldn't have—I had no right to—"

Temperature plunges to subzero. Propped on an elbow, Haji stares at her.

"Saya—w-what's wrong?"

She shakes her head, refusing to look at him. In the lamplight, a fresh tear rolls down her face.

Alarmed, he reaches out. "Saya—"

She shies from him, even as she curls into his twining arm. Her body shakes with sobs. She breathes  _I'm sorry_  over and over, as if she's butchered him instead of letting him bed her.

Now that cruel lust has lifted, guilt chokes him. The realization of what this might  _not_  mean to her. Understanding that he's deprived her of the one fragment she had left for innocence. Self-disgust rises. He envisages punching the walls, tearing the room apart, even as he sits up with his arms wrapped around her.

"Saya, p-perhaps you were not ready for this."  _Mentally, if not physically_. "But we do not have to do this again. We can decide this was just an… incident. That will not have a follow-up." It shreds every fabric of joy to say it. But he will not insult her by daring to feel joy in her arms, when all she feels is pain.

Saya's head snaps up. "Why? Is that what  _you_  want?"

Startled, he says, "Of—of course not. But if you are having second thoughts—"

"What makes you think it has anything to do with—with what we just did? Do you even know  _what_  I'm sorry for?"

"N-no. But—"

"But  _what_? Are  _you_  having second thoughts? Are you passing it off like it's  _my_  idea, so you can get out of this unscathed?"

"Saya, no. Th-that is not what I meant." What  _is_  this? Her temper has sparked out of nowhere.

He draws her closer, but to his surprise, she lashes out. He recoils, and Saya gasps, hand hovering in mid-air. Then, to his disbelief, she hits him again, more nerves than violence. He raises an arm, warding off her blows. They barely sting amid the confusion suffusing him. Evading her flying palms, he grabs her wrists, trying to calm her down. But when Saya flinches, he lets go.

Her expression plunges him back to when their carriage was marauded outside the Zoo. Her terror as she witnessed his sweeping black wings.

Of all her Least Loved Looks, that one still haunts the most.

He holds his hands up, palm-out. A supplication. "S-Saya, please. What is this about?"

Saya drops her hands. Her face is pale, the corners of her mouth ticcing.

"What's the matter? This is not about—what happened, is it?"

She shakes her head, eyes shut. Her voice is steely and terribly childlike. "Haji—who were you with before my Awakening?"

"What?"

The words ring like random arpeggios; illogical.

"You—you've had someone. Some other girl. Who was she? Who did you leave to come back to me?"

"Saya. What makes you think—?"

Her eyes open, red and raw. "I could tell from the day of my Awakening. Something about you seemed… different. More reserved, somehow. I told myself I was imagining it. We had other problems to worry about. But—the second you kissed me, I realized what was wrong."

"Saya—"

"Don't lie to me, Haji. I know you better than you think I do. Who was it? Who did you abandon to come fight with me?"

His heart hammers. He wants to look her in the eye, tell her,  _no one_. What good would it do, telling her about his ill-fated affair? But her expression is harrowing. For a moment, he wonders if his confession to her cocoon was absorbed into her consciousness.

Like  _intuition_.

Except it isn't intuition, but intimacy. Queen and Chevalier though they may be, they were best friends first. Each grew up learning the other's nature as a mirror-image of their own.

 _"You're the only one who can carry this out for me_ _…_ _So swear that you will. And that_ _—_ _you won't throw your life away afterward."_

 _"It's like Joel said at the meeting. Only trained dogs are faithful. Men_ _…_ _are not."_

_"I will not close my eyes while you betray me again."_

Haji represses a chill.

_God._

She has known all along.

"Saya, I-I—"

"No, Haji. Tell me the truth. Who was it?"

The edge of pain in her voice chokes him. Without planning it, without thinking, he says. "It was... a mistake."

"A mistake?"

"My mis—" Wincing, he drops his gaze. "It was… an error of judgment on my part. But it ended a month before you Awakened. I-I did not 'abandon' anyone to be with you."

As soon as he says the words, they seem to solidify in the air. Final. Unalterable. And, deep down, he feels relieved.

He has told her the truth, at last. He has come clean.

Saya is silent. Her expression is strange. Almost vacant. Instinctively, Haji counts the seconds before her temper will ignite. After the sweetness he's shared with her, he's earned it. Nothing good in life ever came without a price. Never where  _Saya_  is concerned.

But no tantrums erupt. Saya remains perched on the side of the bed. Needing to fill the blanks, he hastens on, "It was in Berlin. She was part of the Red Shield squadron I was assigned to. Our... companionship was out of convenience."

Even as he says the words, he feels their ineptitude. They have nothing to do with the recollections of Berlin that swamp him. The cold air and picturesque buildings by day; the Chiropterans prowling in shadows by night. Other recollections too. Of loneliness and endless bloodwork. Thoughts of Saya, her sightless future, his own. His resentful desires, and his even more resentful surrenders to them. The physical satiation of feeling a warm body against his, something that lived and verified his own life.

All amounting to nothing.

"She was a member of… Red Shield?" Saya's tone is dazed.

"Yes."

"Did you have feelings for her?"

"Saya—" Chagrin colors his face.

She flinches, but holds his gaze. " _Tell me_."

"I—" Not eloquent at his best, Haji flails for words now. It seems... clichéd, to explain it was 'just sex'. Nothing, particularly in his experience, is so cut-and-dried. But there is no comparison between those muddling encounters in Berlin to what he and Saya just shared. He still thinks about the other girl sometimes. But only slightly more than about his other comrades there—which itself is not saying much.

Certainly nothing like his breath-by-breath fixation for  _Saya_.

Perhaps loving Saya has ruined him for all other love. Perhaps she's consumed all the space in his heart, blotted out room for anyone else. As it is, he finds it difficult to connect to people on a personal level. What point is there, given their duty—or the brevity of human life? He isn't like Saya, who, for all her warrior's coldness, is teemed in passion. She has the ability to lose herself  _completely_ ; be it to battle, grief, or, apparently, to sex.

His affair in Berlin— _No, I shouldn't, it is tawdry to compare_ —was a tealight to Saya's sunburst.

"We… were not together out of sentiment, Saya. That was an unfeasible luxury."

Which did not, however, explain the girl's anger when they parted ways. A bitter reminder that some things did not go both ways.

After decades of loving Saya, but always from a distance, one would think he understood this better.

Saya does not say anything. She is staring fixedly at him, as if she has never truly seen him before. He can tell she is becoming angry: the skin around her eyes is tightening, her nostrils flaring. " 'Not out of sentiment'?" she echoes. "What else could it be about, then?  _Boredom_?"

"N-No—I—"

"Well— _what then_?"

"It—it was about… solace, I suppose."

It sounds stupid as soon as he says it. Sex has nothing to do with solace. His idiocy in Berlin was just a perverse fantasy to have something with Saya—with  _someone_ —before his duty destroyed him. A dying man clutching at straws.

"I don't believe you!" Saya snaps. "You must have cared for her a little. You said it was an 'unfeasible luxury'. Meaning you would have, if you had the chance to. If you did... would you have stayed with her, instead of returning to me?"

The questions she asks! Haji isn't sure, even as he fumbles for words, how to answer. The idea of not returning to Saya is like denying sunlight after weeks of frostbite. Without her, he will wither away.

"I would never  _not_  have returned to you, Saya."  _I exist for your sake._

"I…I see." It does not sound like a glowing endorsement. Shivering, she wraps the sheet tighter around herself. Her eyes are shut, but Haji smells her tears. His throat aches, pyrotechnics of shame flaring. But he doesn't reach for her.

He senses that Saya doesn't want to be touched right now. Especially by  _him_.

"I am sorry for what I did, Saya. I cannot take it back—but the last thing I want is to cause you pain. I would have… told you eventually. But with our mission, there seemed no appropriate time. You have every right to be angry with me."

She bristles. " _Every right_? Oh,  _thank you_  for your permission!"

"Please. Do not take it that way. I-I only meant—"

" _No_. No. I  _know_  how you meant it. I just—" Her eyes open, bright with tears. "I'm not angry with you, Haji. Not  _that_  way. You shouldn't have to ask for my permission for—something like that. If I were in your place, I would never ask for yours. We were comrades. Not—lovers."

 _Were_  comrades?

A hopeful inner-voice asks,  _are we lovers now?_  But the battle-hardened part of him butchers it. It is not his way to invest in futile hope. Not when any given night could be his or Saya's last.

"Even so, Saya. I had—no right to initiate the dalliance. We are fighting a war. I must never lose sight of that. But—in Berlin, I lost sight of my duty. Even if you say it does not matter to you, I still—"

Saya's icy voice says: "Who said it didn't  _matter_  to me?"

Haji tenses. Eyes fixed on Saya as if to a live grenade. He's already bracing himself for the first blow.

But Saya remains perfectly still. "I'd like to say… that it doesn't matter to me. That you can do as you wish. But I guess I'm not that detached yet. Or that strong. It hurts; I won't say that it doesn't. And not having seen it … doesn't make it hurt any less. But after everything I've done, I have no right to pass judgments on you. I've ruined your life enough."

"Saya—" She is taking this in a completely different route—yet doubly excruciating.

Sinking to his knees before her, he clutches her hand. "Saya, w-walking out in Berlin was a mistake  _I_  made. You have no reason to blame yoursel—"

" _How can I not_?" Her fingers jerk from his. "Everytime I think of what you do during my Long Sleep, I feel  _sick_. Not because I worry about you with—with other people. Not just that. I think of all the chances you might have to start your life over. And how you abandon them each time to return to the war with me. How can I  _not_  blame myself for that?"

"Saya—"

 _My only life_  is  _with you._

But his cowardly tongue can't say it. His fingers curl around hers instead, drawing her closer. He sings inside himself when she doesn't wrench away. The sheet is easy to part. Twined in his arms again, his palms refresh their memory of her sweet contours. The bitter revelations—his guilt, her disappointment—still hover in the air. Ready to coalesce into ugliness at the slightest misstep.

But now that he's holding her, and she's tucked her head against his shoulder, they are secure. That way he and Saya are so alike. The consolation they can weave through simple touch. Whether it is how he guards her from enemy fangs in battle, or how she grips his sleeve in silent possession during travels.

This physical link frees them from the tangle of duty. Demonstrates the simple truth.

"I am sorry, Saya." It's all he can say anymore.

She shakes her head, forehead against his chest. "It doesn't matter anymore, Haji. None of it does."

 _Doesn_ _'_ _t matter_ _…_ _?_

Her tone is ambiguous, neither angry nor pardoning. Needing absolution, Haji presses tentative lips to hers. Sopping up from her flesh what he needs to hear in words. She lets him kiss her with heart-stopping pliancy. Fingers threaded in his hair, pretty noises curling from her throat.

Pressed against him, her pulse is still too erratic. But even as his mind registers this, she is already coaxing him back on the bed, on top of her. Arms and legs snaking around him, suffusing him in her heat, the delicious salty aroma of her body. He nearly loses himself in it. Except—

Breaking the kiss, he searches her face. "Have you accepted my apology?"

"Haji…" Eyes shut, she exhales. "You don't have to ask."

"Yes—but—" He puts up a hand, touching her cheek. She opens her eyes to regard at him. So beautiful and small and mussed-looking. He can't resist tracing her swollen mouth with his thumb. "Saya—please tell me. Is this—out of resignation?

"What?"

He swallows. "Are you pretending to forgive me because of the war? Because we need to fulfill our duty? I-Is that is the only reason you endure being near me? But inside, you resent what I did. You hate the fact that—"

"Wh-what?" She stiffens. " _No_! Th-that's not true! After what you just told me, I could ask  _you_  the same question—!"

Wincing, he smoothes back her hair. She jerks from his touch, bristling with anger. Accusing her of feigning forgiveness: a mistake. He didn't mean it.

"I-I am sorry, Saya. I just—don't want you to suffer more than you are. I don't want—"

_More mistrust between us. More pain._

She seems to know what he is thinking. Her eyes soften. She fixes them on his, as if searching through murky water for glimmers of gold beneath. "Haji, I-I know what you're trying to say. I don't want more sadness between us either. Or secrets. A-and—there is something I have to tell you. Something important. But right now..." She expels a sigh against his lips. Touches him with widespread fingers, hands sliding down the expanse of his chest, his sides. "Right now, c-can we not talk about it? Just for a few moments? There's so little time. I just want—"

Without finishing, she lays her lips against his. Presses hot succulent kisses into his mouth, one after the other, until a groan rumbles from his throat. All hesitation unraveling.

She sighs as he covers her, his cool tongue whorling along her neck, raining kisses up and down its length. One hand cradling her head, the other coasting down her body, absorbing her warmth through his fingertips. Drawing her knees up, he sinks into her gently. Almost melting. She gasps, eyebrows drawn together; still raw from their first foray. But her little hands skim his body, urging him closer. Her potent heat enveloping him, welcoming him.

Making all misgivings fade.

Ecstatic, he starts a gentle rocking that works for her, makes her flush and roll her head on the pillows. Mind deliquescing to white-noise as she mewls and simmers around him. This must be, he reasons, why all creatures mate at all. To recapture, not the short-lived oblivion of  _A little death_ , but that tranquil cocoon before birth.

 _Cocoon_.

Realization dawning, he stops.

"S-Saya—"

The epiphany throbs in his voice. She freezes, eyes wide, face and body all pink. Haji is aware, abruptly, of how malleable she feels. A somnambulist.

 _"_ _There is something I have to tell you. Something important._ _"_

No.

 _No_.

Although it feels like plunging naked into icewater, he rolls off her. "Saya…!"

She jerks up, closing her legs, chest half-shielded with her arms. Almost cringing. Her mouth opens and closes before she stammers: "It—it doesn't matter anymore. W-we have such little time as it is."

"Saya—wh-what are you saying?"

Except he already knows.

Saya swallows. "My Long Sleep is a week from now."

The sentence chills him. All arousal decalcifies, backing up into a harsh miserable ache.

"That—can't be possible," he rasps.

"Why?"

"It has not been three years yet."

"It…doesn't work that way, Haji. You know that."

Of course. Every hibernation's length is determined as much by how much stress Saya undergoes when awake as by how much time passes. And these two-and-a-half years have been more stressful than most.

"Sa-Saya—" His voice refuses to come unstuck.

She sighs, eyes shut. "That's why we need to find Diva. As soon as possible. Otherwise it could be decades before we get this chance again."

"Why—" He swallows thickly. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It wouldn't have made a difference. You're carrying enough painful thoughts on my behalf as it is."

"All this time… you kept me at an arm's length. Because you did not want me to find out?  _Why_?"

Her eyes snap open, rage sparking. " _I told you_! It would have made no difference! All that matters now is that we kill Diva. So this war will finally be over." Her gaze meets his. Wet with tears. Dark with that one terrible question. "And when that time comes, carry out your duty, Haji.  _Keep your promise_."

* * *

 


	22. Caesura VII

 

* * *

**Caesura VII**

* * *

Cavan, Ireland.

Back from a Chiropteran-hunt, their squadron was camped out in an abandoned building—a former workhouse. Cobbled gray blocks of walls, fringed by weeds and garbage. Doors crumbling down, windows boarded up, like from a war-scene.

In the largest room, its single light-bulb dangling above a mattress, Haji kept watch. The air around him was thick with mildew and cigarette smoke. In the building's other rooms, he heard thudding footsteps, men's voices and laughter.

But here—mercifully—it was quiet.

On the mattress, Saya sighed in her sleep. Fresh out of her cocoon, her skin was nearly as pale as his. Face drawn into a half-frown of exhaustion, long hair tangled and eyes swollen from weeping. A stove burned beside her, its pipe disappearing through a cloth-stuffed hole in the wall. The fire warmed the entire room, throwing a red tint across her cheeks—and a fiery flash over her unsheathed sword.

The blade was still smeared with blood.

Watching her, Haji repressed, as always, that voyeuristic tinge, mixed with surges of tenderness and gratitude. Except now, other feelings overlaid it, like dirty oil over water. Acrid overtones—not of grief—but  _guilt_.

He remembered a saying he'd once heard:  _The pleasure of sex is momentary, the position ridiculous, and the expense damnable._

But it hadn't occurred to him, until now, just  _how_ damnable.

Even now, miles away from Berlin, from his indiscretion there, the remorse was suffocating _._ He'd tried, repeatedly, to move beyond his memories. To admit what he'd done was selfish. Accept his guilt as punishment; let it be a reminder never to do it again.

Still, it was  _impossible_  to breathe easy.

Inside, a voice sneered:  _If you can feel so muddled over one affair, imagine what a terrible burden_ Saya  _must carry._

It was true.  _She_ deserved empathy. Not him. He had no right to feel sorry for himself, for a tawdry liaison, while someone he loved was suffering from much deeper soul-sickness.

_But then why can't I move past it?_

_Why can't I make myself forget?_

It made him wonder where his guilt truly stemmed from. Guilt of straying from his duty? Or guilt that  _Saya_  might learn the truth?

He knew that so many people who betrayed the ones they loved. But they always insisted that they couldn't confess the truth, because it would unduly hurt all parties involved.

Haji had always thought that was rubbish.

 _Cowards_ did not confess, because they feared the consequences of their actions.

If you were brave, you would take responsibility for what you'd done.

Saya was living proof of that. She'd sacrificed her whole life to correcting a past wrong.

Out of _duty._

 _But if I cannot do that—if_ I  _cannot be duty-bound to the truth—I have no right to fight beside her._

Or was he just making more excuses? Still looking for an easy way out?

Haji's throat tightened.

Behind him, the door creaked open. He heard the dull  _clink_  of metal dog-tags and combat boots crunching on the grimy floor.

"Hey—is she okay?"

He didn't turn to know it was David. Or ask who he was referring to.

Saya's Awakening was three days ago. Three days, in which Haji had brought her to this Red Shield outpost. Three days, in which he'd been ordered to feed her his blood, summon her shuttered memories. Three days, in which Saya hadn't spoken, to him or anyone, although the medics who'd examined her said she could.

Perhaps, Haji thought, it was a form of punishment. Saya may not know what he'd done—yet. But perhaps this was Fate's way of revealing how things  _would_ be, if he  _did_ confess the truth.

_Or am I still just making excuses? Justifying why I shouldn't own up to my actions?_

Aloud, he said. "There is no change."

"You sure? I heard an awful ruckus a couple hours back. Sounded like she was screaming."

"Not screaming."

 _Just crying_.

It was all she'd done since her memories had returned: cried and slept. Refusing to eat. Refusing to drink. Just staring—eerie and unblinking—at the bare walls and dirty floors, until Haji was convinced she was seeing nothing but the ugly images in her own mind.

After the Zoo had burned down, he liked to think that nothing could shock him anymore. But Saya's behavior left him shaken on a profound level.  _She_  was the strong one between them. The driving force of their Mission.

If she crumbled, everything around her could shatter.

"The situation is under control now," he said. "She is sleeping."

A snort. "I can see that, Sherlock."

Haji smelt David's lit cheroot as the man stepped closer. He was wearing a sherpa-collared jacket and grungy fatigues. The yellow lightbulb made his half-shaven beard glitter, a smear of blood shining on his chin. He did not smell none-too-clean, either. But nor did Haji.

Their squad had been moving from place to place, following news of Chiropteran activity, ever since Saya's Awakening. Indeed, no sooner had Saya's memories returned, her wide shining eyes supplanted by that old haunted look, when she'd been handed her katana and ordered one thing:

 _Fight_.

In a way, Haji hoped the activity, the rush of battle, would keep her centered. Focus her on the minute-by-minute. But lately, he was beginning to realize that Saya would  _always_  be a fighter on the battlefield. Always stay on her toes.

But, with every kill, it was just  _Saya_  she stopped being.

It was never something he could tell her. His joy at her Awakening went beyond speech. But so did his remorse. Remorse for the duty she had to endure, over and over. And remorse, for how he'd dared to seek solace during her Long Sleep, despite knowing how much she continued to suffer.

As her Chevalier, he was supposed to  _share_ her pain. Carry on the Mission in her absence, in tribute for all her sacrifices.

If he couldn't do that, couldn't match her dedication, did he  _deserve_  to be her Chevalier?

Haji swallowed hard.

_I already know the answer to that._

As a boy, he had always felt unworthy of her. But he hadn't realized, until now, how many dimensions that unworthiness could take.

From outside, strains of drunken singing floated in. Red Shield's men were probably out in the courtyard. Hunched over their whiskey-flasks, belting out dirty songs, or playing cards for cigarettes and rations. There was such little else to do here. Normally, Haji would be outside too, reviewing the next Chiropteran hotspot with David.

But since Saya's return, he'd found it impossible to leave her side. Most of the men had let it pass, with crude smirks and smutty references. ( _Saya-whipped,_  they liked calling him behind his back.) But inside, Haji wondered if his constant hovering stemmed from concern—or  _shame_.

Was he making up for his indulgence in Berlin, by overcompensating now? Trying to undo a past wrong, by apologizing without words?

Or was he just with Saya out of  _duty_  now, because he didn't want to be  _One of Those Men_?

Haji shut his eyes.

_God._

_I_ am  _One of Those Men._

Tomorrow, he knew he'd have to wake Saya up by dawn. Explain that their squadron was packing up to head for the next Chiropteran nest. He wondered, bleakly, how many more there were in this area. How many would they have to clear out, before Saya could bring herself to speak again?

Beside him, David exhaled smoke. "Jesus. She still looks half-dead. Did she take any blood?"

"No." Haji followed David's gaze, to Saya's small figure, sprawled like a child on the mattress. Despite his anxieties, the sight suffused him with awkward gentleness, as it always did. She seemed so sweet and girlish at her rest. So much less dangerous. Like a cat.

Part of him was still half-absorbing her presence. It seemed just yesterday he was pining for her, swept up in a tide of misery and longing. Holding heartfelt confessions with her cocoon, or one-sided chats with her in his mind. In a way, he'd spent so much time during her Long Sleep  _missing_  her, it was impossible to stop, even when she was here.

Her very presence felt brand-new, eerie—an event long-anticipated but too enormous to take in.

He wished he could touch her. Wished he could go to her, confess what he'd done wrong and beg for her forgiveness. She would hate it, he knew—but even hatred was a link. A stitch to bind him to her, evoke some real emotion between them.

Her silence these three days had been  _excruciating_.

_Perhaps, after what I've done, it's what I deserve._

Clearing his throat, David asked, "So what's it feel like? Seeing her again?"

"What do you mean?"

David wiped the blood on his chin with the back of his hand. "See, when I get off-duty, it's been months since I've seen my family. Or a whole year. My son always looks different—'cause he's a growing boy. But the funny part is, my  _wife_ looks different too. Not the same as that picture I got of her in my head. Is it the same for you?"

Haji's knee-jerk reaction was:  _None of your business._

Instead, he said, "She always looks the same."

Always felt the same, smelled the same. It was just the eyes that were a stranger's.

David took a drag on his cheroot. "You gonna stay holed up here the whole night?"

"Yes." Perhaps he could coax Saya into eating something, when she awoke. Human food, if not blood. Right now, the only rations their squadron had were cans of creamed-meat on bread— _shit on shingles_ , as the operatives liked to call them. But he supposed he could bribe one of the men into divulging a snack from their secret stash—an apple, a candy bar, or a muffin.

Anything would do. Just as long as Saya  _ate_.

David paused. "You sure you want to keep such close quarters with her? She seemed even grumpier than usual. Might be best not to overcrowd her."

"It is nothing she is not used to."

This earned him a pointed look. "Might be best for  _you_ , too."

Haji wanted to ask what David meant. Then he realized he hadn't feed on any blood since Saya's Awakening. The excitement had pushed those rudiments out of his mind. But now, fatigue was catching up. He could feel his muscles deadening; his throat was caught in a powerful thirst.

Besides. David had a point.

Perhaps, with some distance, he could at least systematize his skittering thoughts. Give himself a chance to  _breathe_.

Aloud, he said, "All right."

"Swell." David gestured to the other room. "Got blood-packs in the cooler there. And a bottle, last I checked. I need a fuckin' drink."

Haji nodded. Sparing Saya a final glance, he followed David down a weed-choked corridor, where two startled lookouts lurched to their feet. An empty whiskey-flask clattered across the floor at one's boots, only to be picked up by David.

"Let us know if Saya's awake," he ordered, tossing the flask to its owner.

The young man caught it clumsily. "Yessir."

"Dumb shit," David muttered, as he and Haji moved on. "In five minutes, they'll be so trashed they wouldn't notice if Saya goes bug-shagging crazy and kills 'em. But who says that's bad? One less lousy soldier to screw up on the frontline."

Haji raised an eyebrow. "And you wonder why they call you a grouch."

"Suck it, Twinkletoes."

Entering a musty room, dark except for a kerosene lamp at the corner, David produced a blood-pack and a bottle of vodka from the icebox. The former, he tossed to Haji, unsurprised when the Chevalier didn't immediately tear it open. In all the years they'd fought together, Haji had never fed in front of him.

Finding two metal mugs, David poured them full. He settled on a wooden crate at the corner. Haji, after a moment's contemplation at the seating arrangement, folded himself Indian-style opposite to David. At the Zoo, this was one of the few things that used to give his origins away. He'd never sat on a chair or sofa if he could help it. Never walked directly  _beside_ Joel or Amshel, but always a few inches behind them. Always made way, if he encountered his betters in a passage, or the staircases.

Because, at some level, he'd always felt  _beneath_  them.

It was never like that with Saya.  _She_ had liked to be free with him. To hold his hand or his arm, to be playful and unreserved, as  _friends_ ought to be. And while Haji had never quite lost his physical distance, even with  _her_ —he regretted it now.

After Joel's death, Saya had become so awkward around him. So...  _distant_.

These days, he was so starved for contact from her, that even meeting her eyes was a comfort.

 _Is that why you sought that woman out in Berlin? For_ contact _?_

The suffocation returned.

_Stop it._

David lifted his mug. "Here's to you and your Vampire-gal."

" _À la vôtre_." Expressionless, Haji tossed his own mug back, taking one long chug.

"Say what?" Swallowing, David swiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Did you just go gutter-French on me? Or was it a proposal?"

"Just because it was in French, does not mean it pertains to romance."

"Speak for yourself. Everytime Saya tells our soldiers,  _mon épée est rouillée,_ s'like she's asking to get a room." David pauses. "Come to think of it, I miss hearing her say that. Was she still doling out the Silent Treatment before her meltdown?"

Haji nodded.

David hesitated. "Did you...drop some bombshell on her?"

Haji's lips thinned.

He knew exactly what David was talking about. The girl he'd slept with had been on David's squadron, after all. At the time, David had pretended not to know. But really, half the team did. In such close quarters—metaphorically and literally—noises traveled fast. They'd all been overworked, high-strung. Grieving dead comrades everyday, and dreading the deaths of more.

Dreading being next on the Casualty List.

In such circumstances, everyone had grown a little warped. A little desperate. Affairs between male and female operatives were restricted. But in truth, they happened all the time. There were always ever-cropping rumors of unwanted pregnancies, abortions. But was that so surprising? There were even babies born in WWII concentration camps.

In face of so much death, you had to snatch at whatever comfort you could.

Haji frowned.

He'd often used that explanation, struggling to rationalize his actions, smother his guilt. But in retrospect, he wasn't sure those interludes had brought him, or his companion, much comfort. It was more about that poor woman wanting to feel needed,  _alive_ , while people were abandoning or dying on her. And for Haji... it had been a kind of sickness. Decades without Saya to inspire him, to set limits in his life.

A sickness born from too much freedom. Too much despair.

Half the time, he'd been so fixated on Saya's memory, on wanting to  _experience_  her, that the act had felt more like masturbation than lovemaking. His companion had certainly complained of it enough.  _You're never here_ , she would always accuse.  _Even with both eyes open—you're never here._

He shut his eyes.

_She was right._

Aloud, he said, "That is not for you to ask."

David cocked his head. "So that's a  _No_ , hm?" Exhaling, he refilled his glass. "Well, glad you're not such a sanctimonious prick as you pretend to be. It wouldn't bring you or Saya any good if you  _did_  tell her."

"David. Keep out of this."

"Too late. I've already started talking." David slugged his drink like a shot. "Take my word for it, Haji. When it comes to a woman with rage-issues, honesty is  _never_  the best policy. You're better off pretending it never happened."

Haji's eyes narrowed. "I can do without your counsel."

"Oh yeah? Who else are you gonna talk to? Your cello case?"

Haji glowered, but did not answer.

"See? You got  _nothing_. Which means I'm your best option, pal. Should heed my advice more, seeing as you're such an unpopular guy anyway."

"Perhaps. But your  _advice_ never pertains to the context."

"What the hell's that mean?"

"For one, this is a matter between Saya and myself. For another,  _your_  marriage is not under strain because you are always on duty. It is because there are other things you refuse to tell your wife."

David waved this aside impatiently. Ten years ago, he'd have taken offense. But the fact was, he and Haji had known each other too long to bother with nicety. "This isn't about  _my_ fuck-ups. And for the record, my wife and I  _are_ trying. For our son, if nothing else. But yours and Saya's stakes are a lot higher. She has duties to fulfill. And your job is to keep her on the straight-and-narrow. Make sure she  _fulfills_ them. Anything you do on your own time is  _your_ business."

Haji shook his head. There was probably logic to David's words. But at the moment, it eluded him. Red Shield trusted Saya and himself to protect their lives. But if that very trust was broken off between their main players, what hope did  _anyone_  have?

As a boy, he'd been brought up to accept responsibility for his actions. If he failed that, in such a personal way, he was not good enough to fight the war. Not good enough for  _Saya_.

_Perhaps I never was._

"I cannot do that," he said. "It is not how she or I were raised."

David gave a long-suffering sigh. "Look. I know you hero-worship Saya. I know you have a long, twisted history together. You owe her a lot. But you don't get that Saya idealizes  _you_ , too. If you tell her the truth, you'll just shake her faith up. She'll doubt she can trust you again. And for our Mission, that's the  _last_ thing we need. You guys are a team."

"So you are suggesting I deceive her, in order to keep her trust?" Haji's tone grew disdainful. "That is contradictory."

" _Look_. You already know you're not gonna run from your duty again. You've learned your lesson. So why not move on? Just forget about it, and get on with your life?"

Teeth gritted, Haji looked away.

_It is not that easy._

"Hey." David set his cup down, serious. "Don't get that mummified look. You  _can't_ tell Saya about it. Not  _now_ , at any rate. There's too much shit to worry about. And we both know she's not a model of mental health. You'll be causing her more damage."

"She still has a right to know. That— _episode_ in Berlin proved that my priorities are not where they should be. What if, a few years down the line, I do something worse? Saya trusts me to carry on her duty in her absence. But if I am unworthy of that, then—"

"Jesus  _fuck_." David rubbed his temples. "What were you, a preacher in another life? All this crap about  _worthy_ and  _right_. It's no wonder you and Saya are so screwed-up. You wouldn't know fun if it lap-danced for you in silver tassles and a feather-boa."

Haji failed to grasp the humor. "I must tell Saya. As soon as possible. I cannot risk straying from my duty again."

"Give it a rest. You didn't stray from your goddamn duty."

Haji was skeptical. "You were in Berlin, too. You saw—"

David shook his head. "All I saw was someone who'd taken on too much shit. You'd bitten off more than you could chew. Too many Chiropteran hunts. Too many casualties. You had one foot on the gas, the other on the brakes. You were tired. You were pissed-off. You missed Saya. At the end of it, you shut down. It happens, all right? People do it all the time to keep from going nuts. They forget responsibilities. Forget restraint. They do things they wouldn't normally do. But that doesn't mean it's permanent. Learn from your mistake, and move on."

"You make it sound so simple." As soon as he said it, Haji heard a disconcerting echo. He sounded exactly like Saya, whenever he himself was trying to alleviate her guilt. He wondered, suddenly, if this was how his words seemed to her. As offensive banalities, instead of helpful truths.

_God. I have to tell her._

_Whatever else, I_ have _to tell her._

"Don't," David said, as if he knew what Haji was thinking. "If you really give a shit about  _duty_ , you'll realize it's not the right time. It's not Saya whose conscience you're worried about. It's  _yours_. If what you did in Berlin is selfish, then  _this_  is too. Just write it off as a quick leg-over, and get back to business."

Haji scowled. If there was one thing he hated, it was being told how to handle his duty. If there was another, it was how to handle  _Saya_.

"Must every word you utter be so crude?" he bit off.

David shrugged. "Must everything  _you_  utter be so fuckin' uptight?"

Haji shook his head, a spark of sarcasm flaring. "Profanity, my friend, is the linguistic crutch of the inarticulate motherfu—"

"Ha-Haji...?"

He and David jerked around.

Saya stood shivering at the doorway. Barefoot and starved-looking, long hair tangling down past her hips. In the kerosene lamplight, Haji could see all her shape through her white smock. She looked too fragile, too tiny, to be a bloodthirsty warrior.

He was on his feet before he realized it. "Saya—"

Too much to take in. She was here—had she heard any of their conversation? She was talking—that  _had_ to be a good sign. She was shivering—God, she was probably cold in that shirt, and anyway, she hadn't had a decent feed in hours; she must be famished.

Approaching her in a blink, he wrapped his coat around her. "Saya—are you all right? I am sorry—we did not hear you come in."

She shook her head. "I-I just woke up. I had a bad dream. I noticed you were gone—and—" She didn't have to finish. Haji knew she'd probably awoken to a million flashbacks of opening her eyes to different places. Strange rooms, strange countries, strange eras—with the same terrible duty weighing her down.

She'd once told him that his presence, like her sword, was a protection against that. A source of familiarity.

 _'It feels less scary when you_ ' _re nearby_.  _At least then, everything else makes a little sense to me.'_

Haji thought, with a pang, of that basic trust she placed in him. Thought of how he'd abused it during her absence—and felt sick inside.

_I am so sorry, Saya._

He realized then, that she was crying. Shoulders rattling, wet strands of hair stuck to a tearstained face. Just as she'd looked earlier, before she'd fallen asleep. That time, she'd lashed out when he'd tried to touch her. But now, when he closed the small space between them, gathering her close, she flowed against him on a sob.

Holding her, smoothing her hair, he was stunned by her wild heartbeat. For decades, he'd subsisted on its memory, yearning to hear it again. Now that she was here, he didn't want to let her go.

He was aware of David leaving the room on an embarrassed cough, shutting the door quietly behind him. Saya's tears soaked his shirt; he held her tightly, stroking her hair.

"Saya—ssh. It's all right." Not sure why he was saying that, or why. Nothing was all right. But it was all he could think of to reassure her.

"Haji—" She raised her head. Eyes bewildered and swimmy. "Where—where are we right now? Th-this isn't Berlin."

He tensed for only a moment. She must be talking about 1945. When she'd succumbed to her last Long Sleep, in the cellar of an abandoned house there. Sighing, he cupped her face in both hands, so her tears spilled into his palms. "We are in the British Isles right now, Saya. This place used to be an old workhouse."

She shivered. "I—I don't know. I can never tell where I am, after my Long Sleep. It's always someplace strange." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Except nothing ever really changes…"

Haji knew what she meant. He wondered how she endured it, waking up again and again to different time periods. Nothing comforting. Nothing real. Only a constant duty to serve as comfort, while she walked that fine line between existence and non-existence.

He understood why it would make Saya want to die.

But now was no time for morbid reflection. Gently, he guided her to the wooden crate David had vacated. Settled her there, arranging his big coat tighter around her. Saya was still shivering, giving off little hiccoughs. But she seemed calmer now, her eyes swollen and watchful.

"You and David... what were you talking about in here?"

Haji repressed a wince. "I—I was—"

But she was already backpedaling. "No. Never mind. It must have been something about the Mission. You've been working so hard these last three days. All you've done is focus on your duty."

Chagrin swamped him. Fighting it down, Haji squeezed her hand. It felt cool and papery in his, almost too fragile to be real. Her Long Sleep had smoothed all the calluses out. He felt sick, knowing they would return within a month.

Aloud, he said: "No moreso than you have."

She shook her head. "No. I get a respite, at least. After every three years, I have my Long Sleep. But you have to fight and suffer everyday. Growing close to people, and watching them die, over and over. How do you stand it?"

He had no answer.

Because, in a few words, she'd twigged into why he'd strayed from his duty at all. It made him wonder, dimly, if that  _mind bond_  Red Shield's scientists theorized on was actually true.

Or was his weariness just so deep that it finally showed on his face?

Except, looking at Saya now, awash in tears and confusion, he realized how temporary his lapse had been. Having experienced an alternative, having put duty out of his mind, the urge to quit the Mission, to leave  _her_ , was absent. No need goaded him to run away and start his life over. His feelings, present from the first moment he'd seen her—to love her, protect her—were still there. In the Chevalier as well as the man.

David had been right about that, at least. Just because he'd strayed once, did not make him a different person. Altered, yes. Disillusioned, probably.

But despite everything, his be-all and end-all was still  _Saya_.

_I love her._

_Whatever else, that can never change. She is my reason for being._

If he  _did_ stray from his duty again, it wouldn't be for internal reasons. Not because he forgot his duty, or  _her_.

It would only be if Saya  _herself_ turned from him.

The knowledge was so simple, so final. It was amazing he had never considered it before. How blind could a person be?

_I needed her presence to remind me._

He knew, still, that he must tell her about Berlin. If only as reassurance that he'd never do it again. David had claimed it was only to ease his guilty conscience. But Haji knew that wasn't true.

It was, pure and simple, out of  _duty_.

_She has a right to know._

Swallowing, he knelt by her feet, a supplicant before a judge. Took her small hand in both of his, looking pleadingly into her face. The words corroded his tongue like acid. "Saya—there—there is something I have to tell you. I-I know now is not the time, but—"

Shaking her head, she put out her other hand. Touched his face. "Haji—whatever it is, you don't have to say it. I-I understand."

"Wh-what?" His blood ran cold.

_Oh God._

_Did she overhear my conversation with David?_

Saya exhaled. Wouldn't look at him. "You're tired of the Mission. Tired of always fighting and being alone. Isn't that what you're going to say?"

"N-no—"  _Yes_. "But—"  _That is not what I meant._

Lightly, Saya touched his lips. The contact, so brief, made his skin burn. His breath caught; in spite of himself, he leaned into her touch.

"Haji, I know how much pain I've put you through. I understand. I know you want it to end. There's only so much a person can take." There were tears in her eyes again. She lowered her head to his, so they were forehead to forehead. Her breath warm on his face. "And I swear to you, it'll be over soon. Once we've killed Diva, please, just keep your promise to me. That's all I ask."

"Saya—" Her words send his thoughts whirling. " _No_. That is not what I—"

"Please, Haji. You don't have to say anything." She was crying, all at once, without moderation and control. Tears spurting from her eyes as her voice caught on choking sobs. "I understand. I understand everything. If I could, I'd let you go from the war. You'd never have to suffer this duty again. But if we ever finish this Mission—I-I need you with me. I can't do this without you. I'd lose my focus. I'd lose _myself_. And then the war would never end. It'd just go on and on, people dying because of me, and neither of us would get rest! We'd never—"

"Saya— _ssh_." He pulled her tight into his arms, face buried in her hair. She clung to him, shaking and sobbing, her words garbled now, lost in an outrush of grief.

Holding her, rocking her softly, realization prickled him.

_I cannot tell her about Berlin._

_Not now_.

She was too fragile. Too unsure of herself. If she learnt the truth of what he'd done, it would snap her.

 _I cannot do that to her. It is my duty to tell her everything. But I can't risk it while she has her_ own  _duty to accomplish._

 _If she cannot do that, we_  all  _will be damned._

"H-Haji—" He felt her words against his shoulder. So hoarse; as if something was pressing against her throat. "Haji—I-I'm so sorry, but I—"

Her little fingers were knotted in the fabric of his shirt. He felt her strained breathing, felt her tensed muscles—and understood.

Kissing her forehead, he moved his head to grant her access to his neck.

"Yes."  _Please_. "If that is what you wish."

He couldn't see her eyes go red, but he felt her fangs extending. The low hiss she made raised goosebumps on his skin—delicious, agonizing anticipation. When she bit him, he couldn't repress his shuddering cry. This one thing that  _was_ only between him and Saya—their intimacy of all intimacies.

She fed deep, too hungry for restraint, her fingers curled tight into his hair. So small and slipping in his arms, yet her warmth, her very closeness, was the greatest solace he could hope for. Whatever he'd done wrong, however lost he'd been in Berlin, he had  _Saya_ again.

The one who made his life breathable. Gave it meaning.

But even as he held her, mind blinking out between her every gulp, guilt bridled him.

_I cannot tell her the truth now._

_I cannot._

But why was it so difficult?

Was his real duty to  _Saya_? Or to _the Mission_?

It was a question that would torment him, over and over, even as he transcended all reality against the pull of her mouth—an irresistible  _caesura_.

* * *

 


	23. Volti Subito

 

**CW: Bloodshed/Violence/Disturbing depictions of mental illness.**

 

* * *

 **Volti subito:**  a sudden turn.

* * *

Karl is the only Chevalier who understands that Diva is mad.

From the maelstrom at her core to her rapturous song, she radiates madness like a supernova. Shards streaking into the atmosphere, tainting the stars, devouring the moon.

Making the whole universe hers.

Her madness does not make Karl overprotective, like James. It does not fill him with pity, like Nathan. It does not make him cosset her, like Solomon. It certainly does not make him  _analyze_  her, like Amshel.

Karl accepts her madness as part of who she is.

He adores her—despite and  _for_  it.

As the years have passed, as Amshel's experiments have eroded his mind, exposing him to all the cracks of insanity, Karl has accepted that she will never get better. Nor will he. But what use is there flogging a dead horse? If not sane, then at least they are happy.

Sanity is such a worthless thing.

Theirs is a special relationship. They are Hansel and Gretel, tumbling hand-in-hand through a forest of gingersnaps. Seeing a world of black-and-white, with the cruel, pure eyes of children.

But there are different shades to their madness. Karl's is a thunderstorm—brash, sporadic. Diva's is as incomprehensible as the Cosmos itself.

_And, for tonight, she is all mine..._

They have explored all of New York City together— _painted the town red,_ as Solomon says. Starting at Coney Island, with its glowing cyclone wheel and milling crowds, its aroma of spun sugar and garbage. Swept groups of teenagers off the streets, drained them and dumped their bodies beneath the boardwalks. Moved onto Carnegie Hall, where Diva has skipped pink-cheeked and delicious along the sidewalks, tempting male humans into shadows—so Karl can swoop in and snap their necks. He gives Diva first rights, naturally, but licks the blood off her giggling face afterwards. Blowing past Little Italy, they attack a family of three, drinking from the screaming mother and father before quaffing up the child for dessert. At a restaurant in Chinatown, they leave the drained bodies of two prep-cooks right outside the swinging kitchen-doors, before escaping arm-in-arm across the rooftops.

At the foggy stretch of Pier 26, they fall about laughing. Karl draws Diva close, kissing her cool-warm cheeks and bloodslick mouth over and over.

"Beautiful," he says. "So beautiful. This city is a  _cornucopia_."

"So many tasty people!" Diva giggles. "How nice of them to share their warm blood with us!"

"Which was the warmest, my precious little Diva? Those scruffy boys you blew kisses at in Harlem? Or that silly couple kissing at Strawberry Fields?"

"Strawberry Fields." She licks her lips with a sharp little pink tongue. "Their blood tasted like fireflies and sugarplums. All lovers do." She pops a still-bloody finger into his mouth. Grinning, he sucks on it, slow and hungry.

The cocktail of flavors suffuses his tastebuds, overlapped by Diva's sinuous pulse. He knows she has enjoyed herself. Unlike the others, Karl understands that Diva does not care where she is, so long as she has  _fun._  What does it matter to his Queen, how exclusive a club or how historical a theater? She has no head for such nonsense.

Diva is as happy to eat truffles as to maim humans; as happy to wear designer ballgowns as to wear nothing at all. Her only desire is stimulation: light, sound, scent. She likes crowded parades where the air vibrates with adrenaline; amusement parks where people stream everywhere in a roiling buffet.

Only silence frightens her.

Karl understands the feeling.

Grinning, he runs his tongue over his fangs. "Do you notice how everyone in this city tastes different, depending on their native country? I think I even supped on an immigrant or two from Viet Nam."

"I remember how  _your_ blood tasted in Viet _nam_. Like tea-leaves and lemongrass." Diva's eyes twinkle. "Sweet little fizzles of fear and lust."

Karl's gaze flickers, abruptly shy. "You were... overwhelming to look at."

_You still are._

Diva sighs, a dream in her gaze. "Lust is a such brief thing. Like butterflies made of bubbles. So is Love. But Chiropterans are forever. We have no need for either."

"Don't we?"

"No. What use is love, when you have blood? Blood is what fills my tummy and keeps me warm at night. Blood is the reason you love me, and why you want to make me happy."

Karl blinks uncertainly. "You… truly believe it is just blood?"

"What else could it be, silly? Blood is what makes Sister Saya my sister, and her Chevalier my Groom. It's why these humans are our food—how  _dull_ of them, thinking they can conquer our world, when we can end their lives in one bite."

"You sound like Amshel."

"Of course I do." She beams with implacable logic. "Because of  _blood_. See?"

Karl chuckles. "Yes. I think I do."

Ah, the snake-pits of his Queen's mind. Karl adores her, even as he understands, after years of heartache, that he still knows nothing about her, that she does not even seem to notice, or  _understand_  how unknowable she is. Even now, holding her in his arms, as connected to her as he is to this city—all the whimsy and violence, the long history of tragedy—she is still a stranger.

Even so, he is blind with worship for her. She is his goddess; the Aphrodite who granted him eternal life. Solomon had been her Hermes—a swift and cunning herald. Karl had resented him for his initial deception. But as the years passed, his rage had cooled.

Solomon could have been selfish and territorial about sharing Diva. Instead, he had welcomed Karl into the fold with open arms—perhaps to remedy his own loneliness as much as Karl's.

And Diva…

Even though Karl knows she is incapable of love, he is still devoted to her. She saved him from all his past failures, fashioned him from a weakling into a titan. He exists to worship at her feet.

_I am a Chiropteran now._

_Foolish things like Love should not matter to me._

But then why does he still _want_ them?

"Because you were a human before you were a Chevalier," Diva says. "Solomon and James were too. It's in your blood, old mixing with new. It fills the three of you with  _want_  and  _want_ , until you want nothing but to stop the want." Giggling, she sings: " _Three blind mice… see how they run_ …"

Karl winces. It is always a risk to become too pensive in Diva's presence. His Queen does not understand body-language, but her instincts are razor-sharp. More than once, she has surprised Karl by articulating thoughts that have only just formed in his mind.

Thankfully, she is easy to distract.

Bringing her hands to his chest, he says, "You still have not told me what presents you would like? I will have to leave for Saigon soon. Then I will be unable to give them to you."

"Presents?"

"Yes. For Nathan's contest. The others have already given you their presents, have they not?"

"Mmm." She lets off a sweet girlish laugh. "James gave me a pretty blue-and-red brooch I saw in a dream once. And we went to a ballet. I saw girls in cloud-puff skirts floating all over the stage." She pouts. "But James said I was supposed to Look but Not Touch."

"Typical." What a  _milquetoast_ James is! Why take Diva to a ballet, unless she can pluck those ballerina-bouquets to her heart's content? His Prima Donna deserves the best. "What about Solomon?"

"Solomon." Her eyelashes flutter. Karl feels her scent shift, and wants to bite his tongue. In a heartbeat, she has become unbearably excited. But not for  _him_. "Solomon brought me pretty dresses and dolls. And for dessert, we went to a place with stars everywhere. The music went  _thump-thump-thump_ like heartbeats. And fairydust sparkled in the air. I could taste it in every human's blood."

"Fairydus—? A Disco? Is that where he took you?"

 _Damn._ Why hadn't he thought of that?

Discothèques have all the sensorial titillations Diva craves. And they are dark enough that you can feed off a dozen tipsy humans unseen.

Leave it to Solomon to combine the cosmopolitan with the bloodthirsty.

Karl brings Diva's fingers to his lips. "I cannot promise my offer will be as...  _sparkling_  as Solomon's."

"No one's can."

Her pensive gaze makes him nervous. Then she twirls in a circle, humming a fairy song as her dainty fingers stir the air, and his anxiety fades. Taking her right hand in his, he mock-bows with theatrical flourish. Diva giggles and curtsies.

At the foggy pier, they glide together in a waltz.

"I want a rainbow for my present," Diva says.

"A rainbow?"

"Yes. Lots of colors. Because when I go into my Long Sleep, all I see is gray. It reminds me of my too much of my tower." She shivers, and he gathers her closer. "But if I have a rainbow with me, then my Long Sleep will be happy. I'll be able to see everyone in my dreams. Sister Saya and Solomon. Nathan and James. Amshel. Even you."

He tries not to feel hurt at being her last choice. "What sort of rainbow would you like?" A rainbow, in Diva's mind, could be anything from a calico skirt to a colorful sprig of flowers.

"Something I can hold in my eyes. To chase the spiders off."

"Spiders? Where?"

Matter-of-fact, she taps her temple.

"Oh."

Darling, mystifying Diva. Karl only ever knew her when she was insane. Even so, he sometimes wonders what she would've been like, were she less… broken. Would she have been capable of love then? Devoted to one Chevalier alone?

Or are her Chevaliers  _themselves_  the broken ones—that she must run from one to the other, like Goldilocks in a perpetual chain of  _too hot, too cold, just right_?

Even now, when he is alone with her, Karl still yearns for more. Doesn't that mean the lack is in himself, not  _her_? Their blood-bond is supposed to bridge all gaps. It does, yet doesn't.

Wind picks up, blowing across the pier. Karl breathes it in. The salty aroma mingles with Diva's scent of periwinkles and copper. It is dappled with a hundred shades from the city—fears, hates, lusts, loves. And beyond that, a fragrance as strong as Diva's.

If Karl could compare the two in his mind, it would be like contrasting autumnal equinox to a winter solstice. Equally beautiful, but dissimilar.

_That must be the Other Queen._

_Saya..._

In a burst of curiosity, Karl wonders if their Great Enemy is anything like _Diva_. According to Amshel, she is highly dangerous. Her blood alone can kill a Chevalier.

 _Perhaps… I should seek_ her _out to kill me._

_Perhaps then, my turmoil will end._

Diva's eyes darken. " _How dare you_ —!"

Her unexpected blow is staggering. Stars explode behind his eyes. He  _slams_  into a rusted shipping-crate, tasting blood in his mouth.

"D-Diva— _what_ —?"

Diva's whole body vibrates with rage. "How  _dare_  you think of  _her_ when you're with  _me?_  I  _will not_ share my toys with her. She'll only break them. She's half-broken herself— _and she has only herself to blame_!"

"Diva—I-I was only—"

"I don't want broken toys, Karl. I can't stand them. All those eyes. Always staring at me like mirrors! And you already have so many cracks inside. You'd be the  _easiest_  to break."

"Diva—" Warily, Karl straightens. He knows better than to confuse this tantrum for love. It is only her pride. Which makes her insanity shrink to microscopic proportions. "Diva, you must not worry so. If you fear that your sister will break your toys—" He grins. "We can break her first. Would you like that? Would you like it if I hunted her down and killed her? I could do it. Tonight. Now. Whenever you wish."

Diva's temper evaporates, a mystifying  _volte subito_. Smiling, she reaches for him, the fingers of her hand opening like a windflower. Suddenly, she looks exactly as she did when they first met. A sea-nymph so ethereal he can almost see through her, if not for her radiant blue eyes.

Spellbound, Karl gathers her in. "I could do it. I would live to destroy her. Just give me the word."

Diva smiles. "You'd do it, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

She is upon him at once, teeth sunk into his neck. The pleasurepain ignites through him. The world goes red, stars swirling, the moon  _screaming_. His every sense contracts to nothing but the needle-points of her fangs, her grasping little hands, the hot vacuum of her mouth, endlessly thirsty, endlessly consuming, until it feels as though his very heart is rushing to meet her with every gulp, everything in his body rising with it.

Sighing, he melts in her grasp. Her every feeding, violent or languid, always feels new, like a blast of morphine.

Humming serenely, Diva draws back. Lowers her head to give the seeping bitemarks a long, slow lick. Karl shudders in spite of himself.

"You would find her for me. Wouldn't you, Karl?" she whispers.

"Yes—yes—of course—"

"You'd kill her. If I asked?"

"I'd exist—to destroy her."

Giggling, Diva wipes her mouth with the edge of his scarf.

"Poor Karl. You try so hard. But you can't exist to destroy Sister Saya. You exist for  _me_. No one else. If you forget that," her eyes glint like ice. "I'll forget  _you._ Forever and ever."

Her words are like a death bell.

Karl swallows. A Queen's denouncement is the worst fate a Chevalier can suffer. He would cut his own arm off before enduring it. Diva's fickle nature, her roving eye, is unimportant in the face of  _blood_.

Without that, he will be alone.

 _But if blood_ is _all that matters, why do I still want_ more _?_

There is a sudden rustle. Curious, Diva and Karl turn. Through the crates lining the pier, a dockworker emerges—a beefy slab of muscle in faded jeans and a canvas jacket. The wind transmits his reek—seasalt, sweat and cheap beer. If Karl is any judge, his blood has to be 90 proof.

 _Perfect_  for the winter chill.

Diva coos, licking her lips. "I want a hot drink before bedtime. He'd be perfect, wouldn't he, Karl?"

"Another drink already?" Karl's grin has a feral edge. "You are  _insatiable_."

"Always." She points, imperious and enchanting. "Fetch him."

Karl bares all his long sharp teeth. "With pleasure."

They move like wind. One moment, the dockworker shuffles alone through the fortress of crates. The next, Karl and Diva are on either side of him. Before the man can react, in fear or surprise, Karl has ripped his throat in one brutal swipe. Blood splatters the man's face. His eyes bulge, and he lurches back, sinking to his knees. Karl and Diva are upon him at once, biting into the soft place under the jaw.

The human, so warm and immense, is like a full-course meal. Karl strokes Diva's hair as they feed; she hums bewitchingly, and he doesn't stop. The human spasms and gurgles in their grip. But, as the moments pass, he slackens. By the time they are done, he resembles a rag sprawled across the pier, his shoulders and legs twisted at unnatural angles.

Giggling, Diva lets Karl draw her to her feet. Glutted on blood, she is drowsy now. Languid. When Karl gathers her in, she rubs her cheek against his chest, her little hand caressing the material of his scarf where moments ago it had mauled and bruised.

"Mmm," she says. "All warm and toasty. One a-penny, two a-penny, hot cross buns…"

Karl chuckles, but does not finish the poem for her. Diva would not take kindly to the lines,  _if you have no daughters…_

But the precaution is unnecessary. Diva is already distracted by something in his overcoat.

"Karl?" She withdraws a small wooden cylinder. "What's this?"

"Oh? Just a—a kaleidoscope."

"Kal-eido-scope?"

"Yes. I—like to look into it sometimes." Usually when Amshel's experiments are over, and he is left alone to heal. A distraction, however fleeting, from the agony of his seeping wounds.

Diva pouts adorably. "Why would you look into  _this_? It's just a silly tube."

Her wide-eyed expression piques him. Can she really not know what a kaleidoscope is?

Drawing her close, he brings the corresponding lens to her eyes. "It—it is simple. You hold it in both hands, like this. See? And—you bring your eye to that little bit there. And then—"

Diva gasps. Karl knows she can see all the colors shifting—perfect patterns of geometry. "Ohhhh—how pretty!"

"You think so?"

An enrapt sigh. He hasn't even heard her make such noises with  _Solomon_. "It's a magic Looking Glass, isn't it? It sees right into my heart."

Karl smiles fondly. "If you like it, you may keep it."

Diva lowers the kaleidoscope. All twinkly-eyed and giddy. "This is my present?"

"What? No, I-I actually wanted to buy you—"

"Oh, Karl! I asked for one rainbow—and you gave me a hundred!" She kisses him, with that sprightly exuberance that makes her so irresistible. "It's perfect! As pretty as the present Nathan's promised me!"

"Nathan—has a present too?"

"Mmm." Her eyelashes dip. "Can you keep a secret, Karl?"

He places a mock-solemn hand on his chest. "Cross my heart, and pray to die. Stick fifty needles in my eyes." (He's had far worse things stuck in his eyes.)

Giggling, Diva brings her mouth to his ear. "Nathan and James are going to..."

As she speaks, Karl's eyes widen. "You are serious?"

"As the Grim Reaper."

"And— _James_  is in on it?"

Diva sways side-to-side, chanting, " _Farewell, warrior! Ever brave! Drifting onward to thy grave…_ "

Karl scowls. "That is _cheating_."

"All is fair in blood and war, Karl. You know that." She droops for a moment, then brightens. "You'll keep my secret, won't you? From mirror to mirror?"

"Of course."  _Although there_ is  _another_ mirror _I plan to share this news with._  "Do not worry, Diva. To the  _true_  victor will go the spoils."

_But not to James and Nathan._

Diva doesn't hear him. Kaleidoscope clutched to her heart, she spins across the pier. " _If you love me, love me true, send me a ribbon, and let it be blue; if you hate me, leave my bed. Send me a ribbon, a ribbon of red_."

Karl grins irrepressibly. Any other Chevalier would be bewildered by her behavior. All that effort for expensive gowns and jewelry—and she is bewitched by a mere  _kaleidoscope_.

But Diva is such an innocent. Like a child, she has no concept of logic. She only wants what she wants. And like a child, she will use ruthless instinct to get it.

Then again, Karl has never pretended to understand how her mind works. He only understands that she is mad. And what use is there flogging a dead horse?

If mad, then at least she is happy.

 _Sanity,_  he muses, as Diva twirls across the pier,  _is such a worthless thing._

But as the wind blows again, bearing that elusive  _Saya_ -scent, Karl can't resist breathing it in.

Can't resist wanting … something  _more_.

* * *

 


	24. Badinerie

 

* * *

 **Badinerie** (Fr: teasing): a light-hearted character piece.

* * *

Steam rises from the bathtub.

Saya lies with her head submerged underwater. Tendrils of hair float everywhere. Electrified.

But her mind is completely still.

The bathroom, once full of shattered glass and bloodstains, is spotless. Outside, her bed is neatly remade, the soiled sheets wadded efficiently into the laundry basket. As if, in cleaning up, Haji understood that she would not want to be re-confronted with traces of their lovemaking.

He left the apartment the same way. Without a trace. But she forced herself not to question where he was going. It wasn't from some gentlemanly whim to get her  _roses,_ that much she knows.

Their blood-packs have finished. Pragmatic as ever, Haji has left to gather sustenance  _The Natural Way_.

They never discuss it, but she knows his nighttime absences are for hunting humans. Each time, she trusts him implicitly not to kill his victims. Just as he trusts her not to condemn the morality of his actions.

In a war, fighters must take what succor they can get, without too many questions.

But it also sickens her. A reminder that they'll never transcend their bloodthirsty nature.

_'You are a Chiropteran—and no different from the monsters you kill!'_

Sitting up, Saya gulps in air, water streaming off her body. Tears burn her eyes, but she forces them back. Haji will know, when he returns, that she's been crying. She has been crying too much as it is.

It weakens her.

_What difference does it make, when you've already sunk so far?_

She shivers.

Going back over hers and Haji's earlier conversation, she remembers the shock in his eyes, when she told him of her Long Sleep. His despair. They'd finished making love in that same state of mutual antipathy. Silently, ruthlessly, as if they were enraged with each other. Lying face to face in the glow of lamplight, she remembers how Haji had never met her eyes. Remembers how terrified she was of meeting his.

Afraid of seeing something there, that would turn this act into more than expending mutual frustration. And when release came, it wasn't enough for either of them.

 _Why?_   _Because we already know there_ ' _s no future for us together?_

 _Or because we know there_ could be _—and it scares us?_

She doesn't want to know the answer.

Her body aches all over, a byproduct of adrenalined exhaustion. Skin still throbbing with echoes of Haji's hands and kisses. A set of his fingerprints marks her thigh—wine-dark on pale skin. She's only seen marks like those once before. When she'd tried to save a Red Shield operative who was dangling over a scaffolding, a pack of Chiropterans howling below.

The man had slipped from her grasp and died. But his fingers had left the same prints on her skin.

As if she was the only thing keeping him alive.

 _'_ _You are not in the most stable frame of mind_ , _'_  Haji had said earlier.

But it is apparent that neither is  _he_. She'd tasted so much throttled longing in his kisses. He is in as bad a place as  _she_  is. Sooner or later, both of them will snap—and in completely different ways.

 _Except_ I'm _in a bad place because of the war._

 _And Haji's in a bad place… because of_ me _._

Her throat tightens. Swallowing, she traces the marks on her thigh. Her fingertips seem so small against his. In bed, she remembered how much she'd liked that. Their size difference, once such an irritant, had suddenly felt so novel.  _Exciting_.

In the shelter of his body, she'd felt, for the first time in years, light, giddy, safe.

_Free._

Now however, she can't believe it really happened. Had she and Haji really made love awhile ago? Had she really tried to kill him in this bathroom?

Had she really almost died at Staten Island, only to be dragged back into the slog of duty?

Deep inside, she can still remember being that spoilt air-headed brat at the Zoo. Whose only concerns were stylish new wardrobes, and whether Joel would bring her expensive necklaces or music-boxes from his journeys to Paris. She had never made any solid plans for her future. Had more or less assumed that one day, she would travel the world, and marry someone handsome and rich, who would set her up in a gorgeous chateau, and that Haji would become a renowned musician and move into the estate next to theirs. And every weekend they would have fabulous garden-parties, laughing and eating pastries, while the servants fulfilled their every whim and the children played at their feet.

Her girlhood aspirations had never aimed higher than Worldwide Travel and Rich Husband.

God, what an  _idiot_ she had been.

Ever since the Bordeaux Sunday, her whole sense of self, of her loved ones, is warped. But until now, she never understood how much Haji's loyalty stabilized that confusion. Somehow, in an incomprehensible, implicit way, she was always  _herself_ with him.

But now, in a bleary state of shell-shock, she questions even  _that_.

The confirmation of his betrayal in Berlin—she cannot give it any other word—is like breaking free of a dream so engrossing, so vivid, that you are sure it is real.

Until you wake up, and the impossibility of it confronts you from every angle.

Tears rush up again, bitter as bile. She forces them back.

It is easy… too easy… to be angry with him. The Queen in her blood still screams  _Judas, Judas_! Except it is not so cut-and-dried. She is hurt by what he did—she admits that now, if only to herself. But a part of her knows the grief is fuelled by ego, more than anything.

She had accused him earlier of putting her on a pedestal. Refusing to see her in any other light but  _good_  and  _pure_. But she is equally at fault for that.

Despite her ill-treatment, she still expects him to stay…  _faithful_.

 _But did he_ really _stray?_

_He got something from that woman that I refused to give him. Yet he still chose to return to me._

But why? Was it out of duty?

Or something deeper?

She still remembers his miserable expression, as he explained why he had strayed.  _'It was about… solace.'_ She tries to wrap her mind around that word. If it is anything like the  _solace_  he gave her, in bed, then the act can only be summed up by the all-purpose verb and adjective of…  _fuck._

Saya winces.

In a brutal way, this incident reminds her—because she has forgotten—that he is still his own person, not just her Chevalier. Haji... quite removed from his history with her. Haji... with other choices, just as she had mocked him about earlier.

Haji... who might ultimately leave.

And she will have no right to stop him.

_'If you stay with me, there'll be nothing but pain for you. You'd only end up getting hurt.'_

It is true. He is better off without her. He should be with someone who can offer him peace—not a heartless monster who stomps him lower every moment.

 _But what if he_ does _leave and I'm left all alone? What if he does find happiness with that other girl, and forgets all about me? Could I endure that? I would_ have  _to endure it. If he were happy, truly happy, then my doubts wouldn't matter. I'd be glad for him. Glad to finish this war, and leave him safe and free in a new life, only if—_

The reflection, plaintive, absurd, makes her cringe. In some ways, she is still a sixteen-year-old ninny. Here Haji and she are trapped in a momentous crisis, and her psyche cannot process anything beyond,  _I can't leave my best friend!_

This tale will not end with Happily Ever Afters for anyone.

Romantic dreams are pointless, she realizes now. Absolutely pointless ideas for fools. People who are naïf, childish and can afford to waste their time.  _She_ cannot. Haji had been so devoted to her all these years, and she has come to rely on that devotion as on a foundation of iron. But who is to stay that devotion does not have an expiration-date?

Forcing him to stay with her... no matter how much she needs him...

_I can't do that._

She must steer alone from hereon. She is no Helpless Damsel in need of a Brave Knight. She has weathered her share of battles already. It is time to let go of her foolish insecurities, and face this mission head-on.

Fulfill her duty.

Except—

Shivering, Saya closes her eyes. For one breathless moment, she relives what happened in her bedroom. Feels Haji's ceramic white arms wrapped around her, his cool body fused to hers, shooting shudders through her with each movement. His sighs a sweet chill in her ear:

_'Saya…'_

When she'd first invited him to bed, it was to erase the wrong she'd done him. Let him trade duty for softness in her arms. Hoping, if only vicariously, for a slice of the oblivion he experienced— _a little death_.

Instead, he'd made her, with his whole body, feel sensations that made her want to grab her sword.

Want to  _live_.

Snatching up the washcloth, Saya scrubs roughly at her skin, as if erasing the memory like a germ.

Strange how just that word— _live_ —fills her with such panicky longing. What is  _wrong_  with her? A week ago, she had been as emotionless as an effigy. It was apropos to this war.

 _Oh God._  Is this what sex does to you? Leave you vulnerable and disoriented, still trapped in a bleak place where nothing has changed, but which suddenly seems that much bleaker? Having been let in on the whole 'adult-mystery' she can honestly admit she doesn't feel any different. Yet something  _is_  different, layered over her old self, coloring all her thoughts and feelings.

Painting everything in a new—terrifying—light.

Quitting the bathroom, dried and dressed, Saya carries her sword to the 'lounge', intent on a warm-up kata to keep her mind centered.

But the moment she crosses the door, she freezes.

Someone is seated at the table. At first, she thinks it is Haji. The figure has the same lean build and darkish hair. But something is off. The hair is longer, tied back in loose shining braids— _dreadlocks,_ the word floats into her mind—instead of an elegant fallaway. And the suit is different. More charcoal gray than black.

The loudest warning-bell is the posture.

The figure slouches in his seat, legs crossed and propped up with casual insolence on the table, arms slung bonelessly over the backrest. There is a wanton flagrance in the pose that Haji would never dare, nor succeed in accomplishing.

It is the manner of a man with nothing more to ask from life.

Or a man with nothing left to lose.

Seeing her, the stranger offers a crooked smile. "Take a picture, darling. It'll last longer."

Saya's hand tightens on her sword. "Who—who are you?"

Again, that lopsided smile. So Haji-like, yet not. "Take a guess. And no, I didn't pop down through the chimney with a sackful of coals,  _ohohoho_."

A frission of primal awareness feeds the answer.

"Chevalier?"

"Got it in one."

"How did you get in here?"

"One of the guards at the stoop let me in." A ghoulish chuckle. "I guess he mistook me for your boytoy.  _Haji_ —wasn't it? Really, mankind is notorious for never looking at anything beyond the surface. It's entertaining at times—and plain  _boring_  at others. Like when I planted those explosives in your last apartment?"

_The last apartment?_

The room tilts upside-down. Saya's jaw drops.

"That was  _you_?"

"Of  _course_." He shows her the tip of his tongue. "That sinkhole was _no place_ for a Chiropteran Queen. Not that  _this_  dump is a vast improvement, really. But I guess it's the same stalemate as why New Jersey got the  _toxic waste_  and New York got the  _lawyers_." His voice lightens. "Still. At least you've got hot water. And there are lesser chances of  _Camp_ _Evil_ stumbling upon you. Myself  _excepted_."

"You—?" A thousand scenarios of violent attack bombard her mind. At the same time, paralysis jams her to the floorboards.

The Chevalier gives her an impudent once-over. "Tsk tsk.  _Look_  at you. You're practically skin and bones! That's no good. How are you going to bring forth the next generation of Queens without some  _flesh_ on you?"

Outrage opens her throat. "Do not  _talk_  to me!"

He shrugs, infuriatingly amiable. "Just being a concerned family member. And you are  _terribly_  scrawny. Like a boy on  _estrogen_ —all gangle, no breasts." He sniffs daintily at the air. "Oh dear. It's worse than I thought. You smell  _frustrated_ too. Doesn't your Chevalier give you a proper seeing-to? Don't tell me he's one of those Freaks of Irony who's hung like a mule and has all the finesse of one?"

" _What?_ "

A wink. "Only joking. I was still here while you two were playing bagels and hotdogs earlier. That boy  _ruts_  as poetically as he  _fights_."

His cool taunting smirk ignites a cloudburst of rage so strong her vision goes red, even as dark energy surges through her.

Sword upraised, she snarls and lunges at him.

The  _whoosh_  of the Chevalier's evasion raises goosebumps along her spine. The table rattles and the chair topples down as her blow slices nothing.

Eyeblink-fast, she whirls. Now the Chevalier is leaning at the corner, arms folded, his weight on his right foot while the left taps the wall behind him.

His eyes sparkle as if they are dancing in a  _badinerie_. As if this entire conversation is a game.

"Who are you?" Saya's fingers feel melded to the sword-hilt. "Amshel?"

The stranger scoffs. "First of all: how  _insulting_. Amshel has  _none_  of my witty charm.  _Second_  of all: If Amshel knew where you were, do you think you'd still be  _alive_?"

"Is that why you're here? To verify my location and tell him?" Her voice lowers, face remaining deadpan while her eyes do the work of being ominous. "Or are you here to kill me on his orders?"

"Neither." Humor lights his eyes. "I wish you wouldn't glare at me like that. It brings back such excruciating memories."

"Memories?"

"Of my Queen." The Chevalier tilts his head, dreamy. "You really are the  _spit_  of her, y'know."

"That," Saya hisses, "is unfortunately because we are twins."

"I wasn't talking about  _Diva_."

Saya blinks, confusion tailgated by fury. "Don't waste my time. What do you want? If you're here to convey some message on Amshel's behalf, you'll be taking back my reply in pieces."

The Chevalier crooks a brow. "If you intended to kill me, you would have done it already. And if my intention was to kill you, rest assured, you would never have made it past the threshold. But since we're both alive, let's assume each is interested in what the other has to say."

Saya raises her sword. "I have no interest in  _anything_  you have to say."

The Chevalier doesn't bat an eyelid. "Tut tut. I'm not here to fight you. And before you begin to carve me up like a capon, you should know: I am here to offer you vital information."

" _Information_?"

"On Diva. And where you can find her."

The tips of her fingers and toes go numb. But Saya keeps the disbelief off her face. "And you're here to just  _hand_ this information over?"

"Consider it my Christmas present."

"I'd prefer the sackful of coal."

His eyes squinch with satire. Playful. "Diamonds are buffed out of coal, y'know."

"And traps from misinformation?"

"That's  _very_ good! Mirror a question with a question. It avoids spilling personal information. But in this case, you're wrong. This isn't a trap. I'm offering this information as a  _tip_. You have my word."

"It's worth—"

"All the shit fertilizing Central Park? I bet. But, like that aforementioned park itself, you are bound to glimpse one or two surprises."

"Why would you want me to know where Diva is? You're her Chevalier."

"To all appearances, I suppose so. But face it. You have no other leads. So why not stop playing games and admit it? You want what I have to give."

With a sanguinary smirk, he straightens, moving toward her.

Saya tenses, sword extended to attack.

Realizing she has misinterpreted his gesture, the Chevalier throws his head back with a laugh. It is an amused, indulgent sound. "Oh, my poor poor girl. It's no wonder that Chevalier of yours is too afraid to put the moves on you. You're the lady— _and_  the tiger."

"If you have nothing useful to tell me, you have no business being here. Leave.  _Now_. Or should I toss you out the window?"

He titters. "Of the twentieth floor? That won't  _kill_  me—but it  _will_  leave quite a nasty splat on the pavement."

"Not really. Crystallized dust scatters quickly in the wind."

The smile broadens. "Oooh. There again. That ball-busting glare. Five foot' two of Divine Fury. Just like  _her_."

"Who?"

"Not your sister, darling. Your beloved  _mater_. The source of your youthful looks and infinite angst. I always see her in Diva's squally tantrums, and in your terrible rashness."

"My ma—" Saya's face recomposes into a glower. "Enough.  _Tell me where Diva is_!"

"Tut tut. No need to get  _bitchy_. I'm here to tell you willingly. See?" Opening his well-cut jacket, the Chevalier reaches inside, using two fingers only. Draws out an envelope, placing it carefully on the table.

"There. In there are tickets to the Metropolitan Opera. Puccini's  _Madame Butterfly_. Diva will be attending—along with Amshel and myself, of course. In such close quarters, we're  _bound_  to run into each other. But you've never let that stop you in the past, have you?"

Saya stares at him. Suspicion, fear, anger, all supplanting one another. "Why are you telling me this? You know I'm going to kill Diva once I'm there."

Ironic, the Chevalier tilts his head. "I'm aware of that. But that isn't the reason you and Haji are invited. I have a…  _different_  performance planned for you two."

"I'm sure  _murder_ features prominently into it."

"Oh  _pooh_. Still singing that same old tune? Do you need extra  _incentive_  to attend?"

She glowers. "That, and a fairy godmother."

The Chevalier beams. "Well, why didn't you  _say_  so?" Before Saya can react, he has vanished in an eyeblink to materialize behind her. His warm breath tickles her ear. "Your wish, sweet princess, is my command."

Whirling, Saya slices her sword across the Chevalier's throat.

But the blade cuts through thin air. Like an apparition, the Chevalier is gone.

Only the envelope at the table remains.

Proof that the conversation occurred at all.

 

* * *

 


	25. Caesura Part VIII

 

* * *

**Caesura VIII  
**

* * *

Saya twisted her black handkerchief into a knot.

Sunlight streamed from the guestroom's curtains. But she couldn't feel it. The aroma of flowers suffused the air. But all she smelled was smoke. The splendid Alsatian villa—belonging to Joel's son, Julien—bore unmistakable signs of mourning. The black crepe ribbons swagging the curtains. The vases of jardinières and lilies. The black-bordered condolence cards everywhere.

Behind the door, she heard voices tangled in fierce shouts. Joel's shrewish sister and her stentorian husband, interrogating the solicitor about Joel's will. Downstairs, footsteps and somber voices resounded; the last guests departing after paying their respects to Joel's bereaved family.

Which did not include her.

She'd always been seen as an interloper in the Goldschmidt clan—an anomaly.

Now, she was just a loose end.

Joel's funeral had been momentous affair, as were all funerals for the wealthy in that era. Relatives, friends, colleagues, and even intellectual rivals had attended.

After the fire at the Bordeaux mansion, the send-off was conducted in Strasbourg, where the Goldschmidt tomb was located. Joel had been buried alongside his rightful ancestry, at his family's request. They knew it was what he would've wanted.

Saya's eyes hardened.

_That's not true._

_He hated his family in Strasbourg. That's why he had his estate built in Bordeaux._

_He used to say that place was his_ real _home._

But her objections refused to move Joel's relatives. Julien had just given her a sharp look, like she was being a disruptive brat. And Joel's younger brother had the temerity to bark,  _Stay out of this! This is for his_ real _family to resolve! Not_ your _kind!_

Those words still lashed her like rainsqualls.

_Not your kind._

Not the girl who wasn't really Joel's daughter. Who wasn't really human.

_Diva. Duty. Death._

The three words resurged. Flooding her with memories of blistering heat and mad blue eyes. Of red lilies, hooting bandits and wings exploding from Haji's back.

The room blurred with tears.

_All of this…_

_It's all my fault._

Since Joel's death, guilt had been dogging her like a noxious shadow, unshakeable. She'd eluded it by trying keep her mind fixed on the present. But it percolated the air around her now. She was half-terrified to inhale, lest it engulf her whole.

Outside, the shrieks gained volume. Saya caught phrases like  _répartition_ and  _usufruit_. She frowned, vague memory flickering. Usufruit?  _Usufruct_. A Latin term. She couldn't remember what it meant.

Julien's voice intervened, explaining something in that dour manner he'd inherited from his father. He even resembled Joel from his early days, but with ruddier skin and a fashionably curled moustache.

Joel had married late; Julien was his only child. Saya had played with him when they were children, and he'd always had a priggish streak. Then Julien had gone off to boarding school, and returned fully-grown with fussy manners and pomaded hair and a spine so stiff a roadroller may as well have flattened it, and what little interaction he and Saya shared had faded entirely. By the time he'd married, Saya barely saw him except on Christmases. And even then, he'd made a point to keep his distance.

She'd sensed no hatred from him; no bad blood. Just a basic discomfort at her presence, as if he couldn't understand  _how_  she was still alive.

Still young, unchanged, when those around her were anything but.

Having read Joel's diary, he knew the truth now.

A second male voice rose over the shrilling. Quiet. Penetrating.

 _Haji_.

He seemed to calming down Joel's harridan sister. Perhaps it might work. Haji's voice had a talent for permeating the atmosphere like a soporific mist.  _A gypsy spell,_  the chambermaids used to giggle.

It was working. Whatever he said was making the shrieks dwindle.

Saya knew she should be outside with him.  _She_  should be facing Joel's outraged family, not Haji. He'd been with her every step of the way already—from their long journey to Strasbourg, to her excruciating meeting with Julien and his snobbish wife, to the ordeal of the funeral itself.

A wake had been set up in the villa's palatial dining room, with Joel's open polished casket placed on the candlelit table. The undertaker had slapped rouge on the dead body's face to give it color—unsurprising, given that Joel had died of blood-loss at Diva's hands.

Saya had been unable to face that garish, shriveled-up corpse. Unable to bear the flood of mourners everywhere; how the gentlemen had stood whispering in dark corners about her, or the cool speculative glances the ladies had cast her from behind their black ostrich-feather fans.

_See that girl there? Wasn't she living in Joel's mansion all those years?_

_Where on earth did he pick her up?_

_What do you suppose is going to happen to her?_

There had been no sympathy in their eyes. Only veiled condemnation. Perhaps they'd sensed, instinctively as much as socially, that she wasn't one of them anymore.

_Not their kind._

Maids had bustled back and forth, bearing trays of coffee and cognac, patés, rillettes, and ammonia-soaked compresses in case the ladies felt faint. The sight of all that food, those gorging mouths, had choked Saya.

Her body revolted against the idea of nourishment. She wanted to fall down, crumbling, and expire.

Haji had been the grown-up one then. Or perhaps he'd been grown-up all along, and she'd never noticed? He'd slid a full plate into her lap, and whispered for her to eat with her eyes averted, so no one would expect her to talk to them. He'd held her hand when the flower-brimming hearse arrived, with its gowned entourage of pallbearers and feathermen. Throughout the long procession, the coach-ride, and the walk to the chapel where speeches were made eulogizing virtues Joel had never possessed, he'd stayed close. Keeping, at all times, what Joel used to call  _a stiff upper lip._

Under the scrutiny of guests, he'd been unshakeable.

But alone, she'd caught him rubbing bloodshot eyes.

Perhaps this was how he'd felt on the streets as a child? Destitute and adrift, with no one to go to. Or perhaps it had been worse than that, which was why his parents had sold him to strangers at all?

She wondered, quite suddenly, how he'd endured that primal loss of home.

There was a sudden knock on the door, followed by the knob turning. Haji stepped in, calm and somber in his black mourning suit. The sunshine haloed his loose hair with silvery-gold; casting two bright glints in his eyes.

"Saya? Are you all right?"

Wooden, she nodded. And, in the same breath, shook her head. Haji understood. Shutting the door, he crossed the room in two strides. Knelt before her, his arms coming tight around her.

And, with the woolen fabric of his coat against her cheek, he said, "Saya, it doesn't matter what was written in that diary. It is all right to miss him. We both do."

This broke her. During the funeral, she'd been too frozen to cry. But now, away from whispers and prying eyes, the tears fell in a gush. Her shoulders shook, harder and harder, a gathering avalanche. Feeling, at last, the horror of what she'd endured, made  _Haji_  endure, and would have to endure still.

The guilt of countless lives destroyed from a single unlocked door.

Pressing her wet face to his chest, she sobbed, "You used to warn me that something terrible would happen because of my recklessness— _and_   _you were right—you were right_!"

"Saya—Sssh."

"I'm sorry, Haji. I'm so sorry I let this happen! Why couldn't I understand that there was a  _reason_  she was locked in that tower? Why couldn't I have told Joel, instead of—?"

"Saya, please. It was a mistake. A terrible mistake. That doesn't make you evil. From the moment Diva left her tower, this was beyond your control."

She squeezed her eyes shut, tears overflowing. "You sound so  _sure_!"

"I'm sure of nothing. Except that you need to stop blaming yourself. Otherwise the guilt will destroy you. And that is the last thing I want."

"I  _should_  be destroyed!"

"No—Saya, please—"

Her hands slipped between them, gently putting him back. She couldn't bear the tears in his eyes. How could he be so willing to forgive her, when she could never forgive herself? Everything alive ought to recoil from her. Yet even as she thought this, she was grateful for his closeness, his warmth.

Swabbing her eyes with her handkerchief, she whispered, "What was Joel's sister screaming about? Did he leave nothing for her family in his will?"

"He did. A hefty sum. But it was his instructions about the mansion she was furious with."

"The mansion?"

He twined his fingers with hers. "He's left the Zoo to Julien. But he's also added that you will be allowed to live there, unconditionally. Until the event of your death. Joel's sister claimed—"

"That I have no right to live there, because I'm not family?" Tears spilled thicker, but she spoke without sobs. "She's right. I've been a hanger-on since the day Joel took me out of that… that mummy. I have no right to claim anything from him."

"You do on paper. That's what matters. Joel's sister wanted Julien to sign over his right to the Zoo, and expel you. She kept going on about some term called usufruit—I do not know. At first I thought she was hungry. Although God knows, she ate enough for twenty at the funeral. Even  _you_  would have been shocked." He tried to quirk his lips, but it was a poor joke. "Whatever the case, Julien refused her demands."

"Why would he do that?" Her voice shook. "I as good as killed his father. He blames me for what happened."

"Not as much as you might think." He thumbed the tears off her cheeks. "Julien quarreled with Joel, because he was seeking a divorce from his first wife to marry some cabaret singer. You remember, don't you? When he arrived unannounced in March, and left the same night after rowing in Joel's study?"

"Yes. I remember."

Vague memories of Julien stepping from a carriage and hurrying into the mansion one spring afternoon. Memories of angry voices rising from behind Joel's study, and the  _crash_  of a door slamming open as Julien stormed out, trailed by his father's livid warnings. Of Joel refusing to answer when she asked what they'd talked about, or why Julien left so soon.

"Joel was against the idea of Julien remarrying," she said. "' _Not a woman of her get'_. It would've been a scandal."

"Joel never did approve of divorce." Haji's brow knitted faintly, as if bemused by how a man so notorious for his liberal ideas could hold such rigid concepts about marriage.

Saya sighed, bittersweet. "I loved Joel. But he could be such a hypocrite. He only disapproved of divorce because of the social hassles. Rank was always more important to him than money."

Abruptly, she fought a cringe.  _Was. Loved._  She was already thinking of Joel in the present-tense.

"He was what he was," Haji said. It sounded like an epitaph. "But with the recent events, Julien has full leave to do what he wishes. He's told me that as soon as the prescribed period of mourning is over, he and his mistress will be married."

"What about… all the others? The guests who were killed at the party. They blame me for what happened, don't they?"

Haji winced, but did not refute it. "Saya… what happened that night. It wasn't your fault. You never…"

" _Don't_." Tears scalded her eyes. "Please don't. Denial or comforting is going to change what I did. Not to Joel… or to you."

He stiffened, as if ashamed. His resurrection after that horrible fall at the cliff, after the blood-kiss, the thrashing and screams—was like being confronted by a ghost. Even now, part of her wondered if this truly was Haji, and not some warped embodiment of her conscience, reminding her hour-by-hour of her crimes.

She took a breath, willing herself to feign a composure she did not feel. "Haji, I—I have to speak with you about something."

"What?"

"I—met with Joel's cousin, David. Last evening in the parlor, while you were out helping with the funeral arrangements."

She felt his sharp focused stare. "And?"

"He—he and Julien have read Joel's diary. Page for page. About the experiments Joel conducted. The research on the—Ch-chiropterans." She sniffled, pressing her handkerchief to her nose. "And after discussing everything, David, Julien and I reached an arrangement."

"An arrangement?"

She nodded, not meeting his eyes. "In Joel's diary, it—stated that my blood is poisonous to Diva. When Joel—mixed it with hers during a test, it crystallized. That must mean that my blood can take her down. So we agreed that—"

"Saya—" A chill riffled through Haji's voice.

She kept her eyes on her handkerchief. "We decided that once the funeral, and the other arrangements have settled down, I would head out to find Diva. David and Julien will finance the venture. They have contacts over France who can help me in locating her. So that I can—"

"Saya—are you sure that what you want to do? If anything, the massacre at the Zoo has proven how  _dangerous_  Diva is. Do you truly plan to—?"

"To kill her? Yes." A steel edge of hatred sharpened her tone. " _I'm_  the one responsible for what she did that night, Haji. It's my duty to correct everything now." She let that word,  _duty_ , simmer through the air. Then swallowed, eyes slipping shut. "But that isn't what I want to talk to you about. I want to tell you… that you have to go."

"Go?"

She wouldn't look at him. "The last thing I need is another person suffering because of my blood. Which is why Julien and David both agreed that now that Joel's gone, and—and the Zoo's destroyed, you needn't be held back anymore." Her tone faltered, then firmed. "I'll be offering you a sum of money. Along with the request that you not come into further contact with me."

" _What_?"

"I'm letting you go, Haji. You're free of your duty to—to take care of me—or whatever it is that Joel took you in for."

He leaned in, putting a hand on her wrist. Light, but with an underlying tremor of anger. "There was more to my time at the Zoo than a dry financial arrangement, Saya."

"Maybe. But I think it's time you were absolved of that… servitude. You're free to leave. Pursue a life outside the Zoo. Get married. Have a career. Whatever you want."

"Saya—" His tight imploring tone was excruciating.

Forcibly, she jerked his hand off. " _Please_ , Haji. I've made my choice. And it's time for you to make yours. To start your life over."

"And what if I don't?"

She leapt to her feet, impatient. "Don't say these things! You know what sort of  _disaster_ we're in! You  _know_ I have to bring Diva down. Who else is going to do it? But I can't risk you getting hurt in this battle, Haji. I  _can't_."

"Saya—I do not care how dangerous you think this battle is. If you have chosen to take up arms against Diva, I am ready to go with you. To help however I can."

"Please, Haji! This is not some errand to run! This is going to take time. And travel. A-a-and venturing places neither of us wants to go. Our lives are never going to be the same again." Her throat ached, a reminder that she wasn't quite as resigned to this cruel reality, or their separation, as she let on. She swallowed, but couldn't look at him.

Haji was adamant. "I endured travel to unwanted places continually as a boy. Why should this be any different?"

Her hands balled into fists. Anger transmogrifying into misery. "Haji— _please_. Don't do this! You're free to lead your own life now. To do what  _you_  want! You should go!"

"And leave you to shoulder this burden alone? I cannot do that, Saya."

"You stubborn pest, this isn't  _your_  battle to fight! You have no duty—"

"Not everything is about  _duty_."

The violence in his answer shocked her. She froze.

In the sudden silence, the sound of voices floated from downstairs, clicking hooves and clumping carriage wheels. And behind her, Haji's breathing; tight, controlled. Synchronized with hers.

Both of them were fighting tears.

"Saya," he said. "You are angry. And in pain. I can see that. But that does not mean that you—condemn yourself to facing this problem alone. Why not put it aside for a moment, and allow yourself to mourn? There are still people who lo—who want to help you."

"I can't  _do_ that. I have to face up to everything I've done."

"By turning yourself away? By punishing me?"

Tears burned her swollen eyes. "I'm  _don't_  want to punish you, Haji."

"Then what  _do_ you want? Saya—can't you see that this guilt is making you believe things about yourself that aren't true? You hate yourself, and you want to send me away because I cannot agree with you. Please—do not let it come to that. I refuse to let you to face Diva alone. You are all I have left."

The words, grief contracting into an iron point of pressure, crumbled her. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She covered her face with her hands.

The pain in Haji's voice wasn't a ploy, she knew. He wasn't trying to play on her guilt so she wouldn't leave him.

His grief was for  _her_ —for everything she had suffered, now and then. For the destruction of their home—and an era which, in retrospect, seemed like nothing less than heaven.

Then Haji stepped behind her, his arms curling around her shoulders. She was suddenly pressed to him, all the way down, his suit fabric against her parramatta silk dress, his boots against hers. She felt the vibration of his voice on the top of her head.

" _Please_ , Saya. I do not want to fight with you. If you choose to hunt Diva—so be it. I will go with you. I will help you fulfill this duty—however long it takes."

"Haji…"

"Please. You may think this is not my battle—but it  _is_. If I cannot offer the same assistance as David or Julien—I can offer it as family. Whatever it will take to make this easier for you."

The agony in his voice choked her. She opened her eyes, not so much in agreement as resignation. What point was there, making him suffer like this? She had brought him enough misery.

Turning, she hugged him, wet aching face pressed into his chest. "Haji—I'm sorry."

"Ssh. It's all right." His arms went tight around her, one hand smoothing her hair, as if comforting a frightened child.

As they stood there, the world seemed to go still. A weightless  _caesura_. Curled against him, it was so easy to pretend that nothing bad had happened. That she and Haji were still peas-in-a-pod, hidden away from the harshness of the world.

Except the Zoo's carefree days already seemed so distant, as if they'd happened to another Saya and Haji. A pair who had the luxury to dream without reprisal. After today, she and Haji both knew nothing would be the same again.

After a few minutes, she said, "Haji…?"

"Yes?"

"Joel's sister? Did she… really eat enough for twenty at the funeral?"

She felt the imprint of his lips on her forehead. A sad smile. "She did. In fact, watching her, I half-feared you were dead."

"Me? Why?"

"I thought she might be channeling your spirit.  _Or_  your stomach."

Annoyed, she tried to thump him. But Haji only pressed her closer. She felt him shaking with silent, relieved laugher. As if he expected to embrace a corpse, only to feel a faint pulse still beating.

It was a long moment before they drew back. Haji regarded her pensively, hands cradling her head. This close, she could see the dark smudges under the fine skin of his eyes. The almost boyish way his lower-lip quivered. She realized she'd forgotten how young he still was, underneath all that black fabric and cool poise. How breakable.

Without thinking, she leaned on tiptoe in to kiss him. His lips were cool, slippery on hers. She tasted wine and blackcurrants—quintessence of Haji. He stood frozen for a moment, head at an angle. She heard his breath catch, felt him swallow, before he circled her closer. For a moment they both seemed to succumb—until she jerked back as if electrocuted.

"Ha-Haji—I—"

Haji took a ragged breath, fighting for a composure he clearly did not feel.

"I'm sorry." The apology was preemptive more than anything. "I did not mean to—"

She was shaking her head before he finished, though she was unsure at what. His face was palely anxious, exuding chagrin. She wondered what her own expression looked like to him.

He shifted as if to let her go. But she held on.

_Not everything is about duty._

Those words strobed through her, their edges flickering. Igniting warnings, implications, she instinctively understood, but could not bring herself to face. They had no place in the wake of her duty. If she turned her back on them, shelved them into the corner of her mind, she would be able to maintain a precarious sanity.

"I'm sorry," Haji said again. Quieter. She felt his radiating shame.

"It's ... all right," she whispered. They had both made themselves vulnerable in grief; vulnerable in their sympathy for each other. It was an accident, nothing more.

It was all she could allow it to be.

But even as she thought this, her mind felt divided. Caught between grief and a strange, frightening epiphany.

Haji slowly drew back. "I should go. Perhaps you would like to be alone."

She shook her head. "No. Stay here."

"Are—are you sure?"

She nodded. Drew slowly closer to him, her head settling against his chest. Haji hesitated, before his arm came around her, cool hand on the nape of her neck. She felt him wonder at himself, as if this gesture, skin on skin, were both daring and unseemly.

She could've told him they had crossed such prim thresholds when the Zoo burned down.

"Saya," Haji whispered then. "There is something I need to tell you. I-I know it is not the right time, but I—"

"Don't," she cut in.

He froze.

Eyes closed, she nestled against him. "Please. Stay here and don't talk. I just—want to forget for a little bit."

Haji paused, still caught between thought and speech. Then nodded. His arm tightened around her, lips brushing the top of her head. He breathed something into her hair. Perhaps an apology— _I am sorry_. Perhaps something practical— _You need to rest_. Perhaps protective— _Everything will be fine._

Or perhaps something far more heartfelt. More devastating.

But whatever the words, she couldn't hear them. The sound of her own weeping drowned them out.

* * *

 


	26. Second Movement: Furibondo

 

* * *

 **Furibondo (It):**  Fury

* * *

The fireplace blazes in Amshel's study.

Even so, crossing the threshold, Solomon fights a chill.

The room is two stories high, inlaid in mahogany. Decorated in that dark, majestic manner he always associates with his big brother. Amshel stands facing the Louis XV mantelpiece, hands crossed behind his back. The orange coals cast shapes everywhere. Solomon sees his own wavering shadow, following him across the room, over the Jacobean settees and framed paintings, like an embodiment of terror.

Nonetheless, his voice, though raspy, is calm. "You wanted to see me, brother?"

"I did." Amshel turns. The whites of his eyes seem strangely reflective, as if made of ice. "You are late. I sent for you half-an-hour ago."

"I… have been very busy. There were arrangements in shipping our Special Ingredient to see to."

"What happened to your voice?"

"I—I believe it was the substance you recently advised me to add to my blood. Perhaps it is a side-effect."

"A side-effect?" Amshel looks contemplative. "Curious. None of your brothers reported such a thing. Perhaps, as with humans, the reaction varies from Chevalier to Chevalier. I shall have our scientists conduct further tests on Karl, to validate the theory."

"Yes, brother." Solomon fights a sour taste in his mouth. "But… what did you wish to discuss?"

"Ah, yes." Amshel smiles thinly. "I have just received news from Dr. Rosenberg in Vietnam. The final stage of our experiments has borne fruit."

Solomon is startled. "The concoction made from Diva's blood was successful?"

"Yes. With a 98% success rate. Far better than the results of project Beta or Chi. We have tilted it, tentatively, as Delta67."

Solomon nods.  _Delta_ for the fourth stage of the scientific process.  _67_ for the date of its origin.

"That is wonderful news." He pauses. "But… what did you want to see me about?"

Amshel's eyes narrow. "There is something I must explain to you. With the perfection of Delta67, it will be possible to transform humans to Chiropterans with the bare rudiments of Diva's song. But our next step is to infuse this chemical among humans. On a  _global scale_. And for that,  _you_  are necessary."

Solomon's ears prick up. "Me?"

Amshel faces the fireplace again. "The first step is to situate you and your brothers in important spheres of business. Karl will be placed in Vietnam. His job will be to monitor Delta67's progress, and ship it to corresponding areas for further modification. James will become our link to the United States. It will be his job to expand our operation—covertly—within the US borders. Nathan will become a successful producer in the music industry. We will need his connections to launch the final stage of our plan."

"And… what about me?"

Amshel offers him a cool sideways glance. " _You_ will perfect raw Delta67 into the  _finished product_. The product that  _humans_  are to consume. It will be your job to receive shipments from Karl. You will convert them into comestibles that are to be distributed worldwide. It is a time-consuming operation. Requiring discretion and subtlety. Are you up for the task?"

Solomon nods. "I… think I am."

"Oh?"

"Yes." The rudiments of a plan are forming. "I… have been keeping an eye on promising candidates in the pharmaceutical industry, these few years. It is easier for that sphere of business to branch into food products."

Amshel looks mildly interested. "Go on."

"W-well—" Solomon tries not to stammer. It is always unsettling to see an expression of actual interest on Amshel's face. His  _interests_  are never about anything safe. "The first step would be to diversify beyond pharmaceuticals, and into surgical supplies and hospital equipment. The second would be to start one's  _own_  network of pharmacies. And the third would be to develop those pharmacies into convenience stores, thereby expanding the company's product range beyond drugs, and into things like personal-care items, juices, energy bars. It would make it easier to transfer Delta67 straight from our laboratories, and into the mouths of humans, without raising eyebrows."

"Hm." Amshel sounds contemplative. He is trying not to show it, but Solomon can tell he is intrigued. "A passable idea. We will discuss the finer details later. But bear in mind, Solomon. The most important step is ensuring Delta67's distribution to the United States. It is imperative for our plan. This country will be our primary seeding ground."

"How? Shall we start our business from America itself? That way, we'll know exactly what policies the latest government favors. And situate ourselves accordingly."

Amshel shakes his head. "It does not matter what policy the US government favors. Democrat, Republican. It is all a way to disguise the naked quest for power. And it is in  _that_ sphere that we will make ourselves indispensable. Not as threats, but as allies.  _Use humility to make them haughty._ "

Solomon recognizes the quote. It is from Sun Tzu's  _Art of War_.

Amshel continues. "As well, I expect you to start a small business that, in a few years, will be a multinational. To  _monopolize_  the market. But if you try that in America, you will face obstacles. Their government imposes antitrust regulations on several of its local businesses. What's more, American CEOs are expected to show company profits every three months. But we have no interest in short-run profits. We are interested in controlling the  _market share_."

Solomon purses his lips. "What then?"

Amshel glances back into the fire. His eyes see, not the present, but the future. "Four decades from now, the United States will be a playground for foreign businesses. And by extension,  _us_. Because this country manufactures its own products less and less. It does not add value to its own raw materials. By the turn of the century, I predict that even their  _basic_  industries will be dependant on other countries. Oil. Steel. Television. Machine tools. Shipbuilding. All the industries essential for US defense. This will leave them doubly open to Goldsmith Holdings'  _offer_."

Solomon nods. It is a meticulous, insidious strategy. He would expect no less from Brother Amshel.

Nevertheless, he senses a note of discord.

"What seems to be the problem, then?"

Amshel turns. And slams his fist against Solomon's face.

The older man has hands like sledgehammers. The vicious blow sends Solomon pirouetting down—a  _furibondo_ incarnate. The cold marble floor seems to jump up to strike his cheek.

When he can see clearly, Amshel is glaring down at him.

"The  _problem_ ," Amshel says, enunciating each word coldly, "is that our  _entire_ agenda, all our years of effort, rest on the news of when America will sever ties with  _Red Shield_. Something that cannot happen unless all their members in Vietnam are _dead_."

"B-brother, I did as you asked!" Solomon's mouth is slippery-hot. He feels blood trickling from his nose. "I told Niklas to ship higher doses of the Special Ingredient to Vietnam!"

Amshel grabs Solomon's throat, lifting him and slamming him against the wall. His face is rigid with contempt. "Then why is it that I have yet to receive news of  _results_?"

"Brother, I—"

"If I wanted a plodding  _dog_  as my second-in-command, I would have chosen  _Haji_. Not  _you_. Are you truly so dense that you cannot wrap up a simple negotiation? Or so incompetent that it is a waste of time to even  _expect_ success from you?"

"Brother, Red Shield's teams will be eliminated soon! _I swear_!"

Amshel drops him. Solomon lands hard on his tailbone, biting his tongue.

In a voice of terrifying calmness, Amshel says, "Within two years time, I want Goldsmith holdings as a solid ally for the US. I want them to forget Red Shield ever existed. And you will pay by the skin of your nose, unless you make it happen, Solomon.  _Now get out there—and finish the job_!"

* * *

In despair, Solomon enters Rockefeller Plaza's suite.

The place feels empty, although he can sense Diva's presence nearby. She must be playing in the roofgarden with Karl. Her scent, like dead flowers and butterscotch, laces the air.

Solomon knows he should not be here. He is supposed to seek out Niklas, seal their agreement on Amshel's orders. But he needs time to gather his thoughts.

Amshel's brutal ultimatum comes as no surprise. He is used to far more unreasonable terms from his big brother.

But that doesn't make them any easier to bear.

_How can I play this game at Amshel's level, when he makes up his own rules as he goes along?_

His head pounds with that same resurgent headache; throat sore as sandpaper. When Amshel first ordered him to lace his blood with that mysterious substance, Solomon had assumed it was for D67's progress. But now he suspects it is for  _another_  project. He has heard persistent rumors of Amshel conducting research in a lab in Iceland. But he cannot gather the nerve to question his brother about it.

It is not his place.

 _But then where_ is _my place?_

A wave of fatigue hits him. Sighing, Solomon slumps against the wall.

What does it all mean, his loneliness, his years of toil, if they just devolve into this same impasse, over and over? Different from his miseries as a human, yet the same.

_No matter where we go, we remain ourselves._

Karl often says that. But the notion, bleak, uninspiring, is not what Solomon wants to hear.

What he wants, right now, is a moment with  _Diva_. To look into her eyes, and remind himself why he suffers all this. For  _whom_.

Her presence will erase the burdens of his Life.

Except he'd thought the same thing the night he'd  _first_  met Diva, too. It was why he'd become a Chevalier at all. In serving her, he believed he'd found a purpose. Their blood-bond had  _freed_  him—in a way, that is the entire function of both literal and sexual bondage, isn't it? To take you outside of yourself.

But often, he wonders if the sacrifice was worth the reward.

He is no more  _his own man_  now, than he was as a human. He is still under Amshel's thumb. Still isolated and alone. Even Diva herself cannot sustain him. She gives him her body, her blood, but still holds back from him what he wants most.

That indefinable, intangible essence of  _herself_. Of  _Love_.

Which is what, human or Chevalier, Solomon craves most.

Or, perhaps, what he  _really_  craves is a more attractive alternative to suicide.

_I should just give up on Diva altogether. Free myself from this self-destructive family._

_Perhaps things will be better if I seek_ Saya _out._

_Perhaps, with her, everything will be different._

Except it is decades too early. Solomon cringes as soon as the idea blooms. He would  _never_  dream of betraying his Queen that way.

_Or would I?_

Loyal as he is, in his heart, Solomon knows it isn't just Diva's fulfillment he cares about. It is  _his own._  He hates the idea of her not being his alone. In moments of jealousy, he often weaves elaborate plans. Of killing all his blood-brothers, so only  _he_  is left. Of whisking Diva away, so it is only the two of them, traveling from city to city. Two deadly, beautiful creatures, wreaking havoc by day and hunting prey by night.

No insecurities. No duties. Just him and his darling, together forever.

Deep down, he needs someone to take care of. Someone who can be all  _his_. But Diva is none of those things. She is a ferocious cataclysm wrapped up in an exquisite, girlish wrapping. The only way he can be with her is to  _share_  her. If he lives by all-or-none, he will be alone.

In a way, he half  _is._

 _But how much longer can I bear even_  that?

Hearing laughter, he drifts to the rooftop garden. The wide solar-trap has a circular hot-tub set into it. Its underwater lights silhouette the shapes of two people, casting a dreamy blue shimmer on their white bodies.

Diva and Karl.

They sit face-by-face, immersed in steaming water. Diva has both arms draped along Karl's shoulders. They kiss in thirsty gulps. A human body—one of the hotel's staff—lies near the pool's lip. One slashed arm floats in the water, seeping threads of dark red.

Watching the scene, Solomon fights off a twinge of half envy, half desire. His blood is always singing for Diva, always yearning. But, oddly, it tolerates Karl's presence over any other Chevalier's. Perhaps because Karl is, in many ways, so much like  _Diva_. Twisted and temperamental. Childlike. Yet, at the same time, he is so much like  _Solomon_  too.

Like a reflection in a broken mirror. Scattered shards that reveal fragments of you, but never the whole thing.

Together, they share the joys of loving the world's most enchanting Queen. And the pain of knowing she will never love them back.

"Solomon!"

He blinks.

Diva has broken the kiss to beam at him. Blood trickles down her chin. "Solomon! Come play with us!"

Karl half-turns. His lips are slicked red; skin marked with Diva's bites and scratches. Compared to her wild-eyed allure, he looks so innocent. Solomon guesses he has been with Diva for several hours now. Karl is always happiest in his Queen's arms.

They all are... for all the good it does them.

"You look like you were dragged backward through a rosebush, Karl," Solomon says idly.

Karl's dreamy expression turns smug. " _You_  sound as though you had to  _eat_ a rosebush. And then pick the thorns out of your teeth. What's happened?"

Solomon exhales, eyes slipping shut. "Amshel."

"What do you mean?"

"Poor little Gingerbread Man," Diva says. "The Sly Fox gave him a ride across the river. But when the water rose too high, he told him to jump onto his nose. And then the Fox ate him in one big bite."

"Not one bite," Solomon says. "More like inch by excruciating inch."

_All throughout my life._

"Life is pain, Solomon," Diva purrs. "You can't run from it, any more than you can catch the sunshine…"

It is as if she _knows_.

"… And you can't claim it, any more than you can claim Sister Saya."

As if she  _truly_ knows.

Shaking it off, Solomon says, "Why would I want to claim your wretched sister? Not when I have a Queen as lovely as you?"

Diva smiles. But her eyes are blank. "King Midas' touch turned everything to gold. But it never gave him what he wanted most."

"Oh? And who was Midas' employer? Amshel?"

" _Hush_!" Diva says fiercely. "No!No!No! You  _will not_ say bad things about Amshel! He is your big brother! We are family! We'll never be a _real_ family if you bite the hand that feeds you!"

"Oh? What about the foot that  _kicks_ you?"

He expects Diva to fly at him, fangs sharp. But she recoils, whimpering like a wounded kitten. Her mood, ever-fluctuating between menacing and childlike, is caught in the latter. Signaling how close her Long Sleep is.

The thought fills Solomon with dread.

Making soothing noises, Karl draws Diva close. "There there, Diva. He didn't mean it." He casts Solomon a venomous look. "If you have nothing  _nice_ to say..."

_Go the hell away._

The unspoken sentence resonates through Solomon's mind. Overcome with remorse, he kneels by the pool. "Hush, Diva. I'm so sorry. I am just—in pain, is all."

"In pain?" Big-eyed, she looks him over. "But you have no booboos, silly."

"Not that sort of pain, Diva." How can he explain? Diva has no concept of pain, physical or emotional. She puts bandages on cracked vases, and rips bruises off of healing skin. Wanting to help, but unable to comprehend  _how_ to.

Sighing, he presses a kiss to her forehead. "It is all right. Pain or no, I should never snap at you."

Diva smiles. A sad, strangely lucid smile. "Pain doesn't have to control you, Solomon. I never let it control me. Not in my tower. Not now. It can only hurt you upto to a certain point. But it never touches the actual  _you_."

Stunned, Solomon stares at her.

Karl only smirks. "She is right."

Giggling, Diva extends a delicate hand. "Come splash with us, Solomon. Your hair looks like honey buns when it's wet."

His mind is in too much turmoil for any enjoyment. Nonetheless, what man can resist such an invitation?

Heaping his clothes neatly on a bench, he steps into the pool. The hot water feels at first boiling on his skin, then just right. He sinks upto his chin in the water, so Diva is sandwiched between him and Karl. She twines her arm through his, giggling and butting her head against his shoulder. " _Ding-dong-bell, kitty's in the well_ …"

Solomon smiles, though his tone rueful. "I certainly feel like that."

"Only because you hold everything in," Karl remarks.

"Me? Hold everything in? I believe that's James you have me confused with."

"James?" Karl is contemptuous. "James hasn't the capacity to feel anything beyond the surface. Looking too deep into anything frightens him. So he focuses only on the superficial details. After all, to see too deeply is to feel greater pain."

"Sister Saya feels it," Diva trills. "So does her Chevalier."

Karl and Solomon exchange bemused looks. Her babble, though charming, is always easy to tune out.

"It's always harder to hold it all in than it is to let loose," Karl says, soft as ashes. "You should try the latter more often, Solomon. Has a good way of hitting that inner  _redo_  button."

"Would that I could." Solomon sighs, eyes slipping shut. "Except it doesn't change anything, does it? Perhaps that's the greatest poison in our lives. Nothing changes."

"Hope," Diva says.

"Hm?" Both Chevaliers stare at her.

Diva's gaze is faraway. "Hope is the biggest poison in your lives. Because you hope where you should not. And you feel where you should not. Until there'll be nothing left of you, but those who still remember you. But I wonder who will?"

Solomon and Karl have no idea what she means.

They never will, perhaps, until the final moment of their deaths.

Deeper concerns intrude. "What do I do about Amshel's orders," Solomon says. "I have to find some way to ship entire containers of the Special Ingredient to Vietnam. But Niklas would never agree to that. It would be too reckless. Even for  _him_."

Karl's lip curls. "Not for a man who has just been told the happiest news of his life."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I say." Karl's eyes twinkle maliciously. "It is dangerous to be given what you want most, Solomon. It makes you throw all caution to the wind. Especially for a man with nothing else left to lose."

Solomon frowns, dubious. "You're saying I should  _give_  Niklas what he wants most?"

"Oh no," Diva says. "A boar's heart instead of Snow White's, to fool the Vain Queen."

"Ah." A dark smile spreads on Solomon's lips. "I see what you mean, my sweet Sybil. Pretend that Amshel has agreed to make Niklas a Chevalier. All he has to do is complete this  _one last task_."

"Which he will be more than  _happy_  to," Karl drawls. "And, in doing so, cinch your  _duty_  in an eyeblink."

"And Cinderella will never sweep another dirty floor again," Diva croons.

Solomon chuckles. "I rather like the sound of that."

"Good." Karl smirks. "Because afterwards, I want us to put on our glass slippers and hop into a coach. There is a ball we must crash."

"What ball?"

Karl's voice reverberates through Solomon's head:

 _James and Nathan have a secret, dear mirror. And it seems they have left_ us  _out of the loop._

 _A secret?_ Solomon's eyes narrow.  _Do tell._

 _Nathan wants to capture_ Haji  _at Diva's Met visit. And have him impregnate her. If the endeavor is successful, he'll let James take credit for it. And announce him the victor in this_ contest.

Solomon's eyes narrow further.  _Is that so?_

_I was told so by our truth-infected Queen herself._

"Well well. We cannot have that, now can we?" Solomon decides aloud.

"Absolutely not." Karl nods, mock-solemn. "But—" his gaze shades. "What do you plan to do about it?"

Solomon does not answer. He merely smiles.

* * *

 


	27. Nocturne

 

* * *

 **Nocturne:** a night piece.

* * *

Nighttime.

The city is a phantasmagoria.

Inhaling the complex aromas, dazzled by the lights, Haji half-compares it to Paris'  _Moulin Rouge_. Everything is lit up in a panorama. A thousand shades of skin, food, sweat. The cobblestones of Gansevoort Street are redolent with old blood. The charred husks of the Harlem brownstones radiate malaise. The windy lanes of Central Park beckon like an infinite hunting ground.

Coasting along the pavements of 42nd street, a Chiropteran in a sea of humans, Haji almost  _tastes_  the city's multicolored aura.

Like any predator, he is drawn to the epicenter of lights. The areas clogged in humanity offer the easiest meals.

In that respect, he's heard interesting things about New York City. Unlike Soho in London, or De Wallen in Amsterdam, the city has no real 'red light district'. But why would it? The place already feels like an enormous cabaret—a backdrop for notoriety.

Times Square, the reputed  _world's crossroad_ , is a case in point.

Entering the renowned tableau, a million garish sights accost him—a discordant visual nocturne. Signs of pink and green neon flash off and on. Advertising live nude performances, pornographic bookstores, peep shows, adult films.  _Girls!Girls!Girls! Virgin Dream. Suckerville. My Sexxx Rated Wife_...

_…Ad nauseum._

Once a successful premiere theater district in the early 1900s—New York's pride and joy—the area sank into squalor after the Great Depression. And, by the Second World War, kept on sinking. The Times Square today is a seedy strip dedicated to blood-sports, drugs, X-rated films and prostitution.

Haji looks blandly into the faces of passersby. Drunks grope from wall to wall. Groups of young men, all different colors, cluster near shopfronts. A surprising number of young couples move arm-in-arm through the crush. In dark corners, among panhandlers and junkies, human predators prowl.

More disturbing are the prostitutes. Like the street itself, they are cut in a pattern: brassy, loud, obscene. Hordes of them swoop in on lone men like gnats, dehumanizing in their numbers, coats whipping open to flash their wares. Lipsticked mouths stretched in ruberoid smiles, makeup so garish that they resemble clowns in a grotesque carnival.

Haji dodges a sudden screech of laughter and painted nails poking at his fly. Backtracking, nearly losing his balance, he stops for breath at a safer corner, with the dreadful sense of having plunged into Hades.

 _This city,_  he concludes with disgust,  _is a freak show._

But it is also, as the saying goes, a city with something for everyone.

Which is why he is here.

Much as he needs blood, he hates picking humans off the streets like a bandit. But here, if hearsay proves true, he will not have to. There are certain clubs downtown—Snake Pit, Milano's, CBGB—where blood-play is covertly practiced.

Places where, if he plays his cards right, he can feed off a  _willing victim_. Someone who won't struggle, scream, or leave the acrid aftertaste of terror in his mouth.

Someone who needs the delirium of blood-loss as much as Haji needs the shameful blood-satiation.

All he has to do is swing by these areas and let his senses show him which human radiates a distinct  _blood-scent_  from behind his collar. After which, it is simply a matter of offering  _A Smile_. Not an ordinary smile, but like a streetwalker opening her coat to display the goods, a flash of fangs between his lips.

If the moment is right, and the fetishist piqued, the rest solves itself.

Even so, this is One of Those Things he can never tell Saya.

_Saya..._

Haji cringes.

He has always hated keeping secrets from her. When they were young, they had been each other's confidantes; told each other everything. But now it is the opposite. Now, they let secrets hang in an unacknowledged limbo.

As if giving voice to them will only manifest them into a full-blown crisis.

Which is, Haji muses bitterly, why Saya never told him about her Long Sleep.

_'Carry out your duty.'_

He still reels from the ugly revelation. Her hibernation was upon her  _all these weeks_ —and she never even  _told_  him. Not, he knows, to spare either of their feelings—but out of  _duty_.

And the recollection of what they shared earlier only makes it more  _excruciating_.

_Saya..._

Despite his rigid self-control, Haji's hands tremble. He half-wants to vomit, but his physiology is shamefully deviant—the memory of what he did with Saya does not sicken him. It alights him top to toe like sildenafil.

Only his conscience struggles against it.

Saya had offered herself to him, it is true. But Haji is intelligent enough to intuit her decision's basis. Lonely, afraid, needy—too much trauma piled on her in too brief a time. They had fought like animals a few hours ago; she had survived a fall in Staten Island that, in his eyes, bordered on suicide. Red Shield is bombarding her with impossible demands; the weight of the world rests on her shoulders.

And here is Haji, exquisitely aware of how she must feel—who is, himself, not in the prime of mental stability.

Who has no right to be intimate with her and  _knows_  it.

But…  _God._

This is the first ever time he has felt so  _alive_... the  _only_  aliveness he can compare it to ... is that distant era, shining and sunlit, when Saya and he were at the Zoo.

How hollow that seems, in the face of  _this_.

In the apartment, tangled with Saya amid the Saya-scented sheets, her nails sunk into his flesh, her voice cooing shivery tunes he never dreamed he could evoke from her…

Now, he thinks, would be when the Ride of the Valkyries leap down to slaughter him.

In the past, sex has always left him feeling dirty, ashamed. It was how it was in Berlin, when he'd self-consciously straighten his clothes after each hasty encounter with his companion, the byproduct of excitement and release making him feel grimy everywhere. As if each coming-together was a betrayal of all Saya's sacrifices.

Or as if there was something wrong with the simple need for solace.

His moment with Saya was no less than that. And no more. He cannot allow it to be more.

Except it had left him feeling so light.  _Clean_.

_Saya..._

_I wish I could say I am sorry for what we did._

_I am not._

He cannot think of anything but how shattered she'd looked, learning of his folly in Berlin. He had expected wrath from her—fitting punishment for his opprobrium. Instead, she  _forgave_  him. He half-wishes she had been angrier; there was something eerie about her fairness, as if she felt unentitled to her own feelings.

Or her life.

How must he have seemed to her, for the disgusting error? Treacherous? Selfish? A bad Chevalier?

Perhaps, once the war ends, no one's Chevalier at all.

_'All that matters now is that we kill Diva. So this war will finally be over.'_

He understands what she meant now.  _Feelings_  are secondary. She will not refute the fact that she'd returned his desire when they'd made love. But she will not pretend that it meant anything, either. Or that it could lead to any future.

In her eyes, there  _is_  no future.

He'd thought, like a deluded fool, that he could pull her back from that self-destructive edge. Offer her comfort, if not peace. But that is the futility of sex, isn't it? It changes nothing. Even when you are physically connected, you can still be worlds apart. Still hopeless and alone.

His affair in Berlin had taught him that. Why should his outcome with Saya be any different?

A wave of despair crashes over Haji, so hard he nearly shuts his eyes. Suddenly he sees things from Saya's viewpoint: life  _is_  hopeless. You fight, suffer every inch of the way, but it solves nothing, leads nowhere. Misery is ubiquitous, love is useless, and when you die, you will be snuffed out without consequence, your sacrifices forgotten, your duties unthanked.

_Enough._

Haji exhales. It is not in his nature to brood. Whatever his misgivings, the bottom-line is to fulfill his  _duty_. That is what Saya expects from him—and her word is law with him.

But… even if he  _does_  help her defeat Diva, yet fails to prevent her suicide, doesn't that mean he has  _failed_  his duty as a Chevalier? As a  _friend_? Except he cannot solve her problems—the only one who can do that is Saya herself. He cannot make her undo their Promise. Cannot make her want her unwanted life. She has told him, repeatedly, that she is not Saya anymore. And he is half-starting to believe it. He has seen a hundred faces to Saya—grieving, happy, selfish, loving.

But never  _this._

A presentiment chills him. What if Saya  _is_  a lost cause? What if he is fighting a losing battle, expending his emotions into someone long-dead?

Except—

His photographic memory replays again, Saya's red eyes in the bedroom mirror. The  _life_  vibrating under her skin, from her curling toes to the pebbles of her spine to the fine hairs quivering on her nape. Her heart racing until he can almost  _taste_ the aurora of her emotions; her flushed, tortured, beautiful face, flooding his sensorium, intensifying his bottomless obsession for her—

If  _that_  is not the personification of  _Life_ , he does not know  _what_  is.

Yet, even invested with that blessing, Saya is determined to extinguish herself in a  _shigurui_ game of revenge. It is horrifying. If she is going to throw her life away,  _eyes wide open_ , then she  _is_ lost cause.

Haji knows what he would advise anyone else in his place:

_Walk out. This can only end in grief._

Except he  _cannot_. Not out of duty—but  _love._  Saya is irreparably broken. But his love does not grasp that; his love—enormous and useless with or without her—still wants to keep faith, to stay with her.

Haji sighs. Whoever said love made you happy needed to be  _shot in the head_.

Aimless, he drifts through the streets. At the entrance of a film titled  _Sins of Youth_ , he witnesses a minor felony. A scraggly little boy, drawing a wallet from a man's rear-pocket. Said man, guffawing with two friends, does not notice the small fingers slipping carefully into his clothes.

Haji watches with mild interest. He has no intention of intervening. As a child, he knew what it was like to be so hungry you'd sell your soul for a warm meal. In the past, his siblings had staged elaborate distractions to rig marks this way. Sometimes, his two brothers would start a brawl, while Haji made use of the uproar to surreptitiously swipe coins from peoples' jackets. Other times, one of them would shout "Thief! Thief!" in a busy market. In a knee-jerk reaction, most people would pat the pockets their valuables were in—making it simpler for Haji to know where to pinch them from later.

It occurs to him that, had he never met Saya, he'd have become a common thief.

_You keep insisting, Saya, that you destroyed my life. But it is the opposite._

_You were—are—the best thing that happened to it._

A laugh cuts through his reverie. Haji turns.

Beneath the shadowy awning of a motel—HOT L CA TER, the flickering neon sign reads—a young couple are embracing. Disinterested, Haji turns away—when something about the pair snags his attention. Although the two are well-hidden, Haji's preternatural vision sees them clearly. The man has his back to passersby, his girlfriend pressed between him and the wall, her hand on his nape. They kiss with superheated absorption.

But something is odd. The girl is too tall, her shoulders too broad, her visible hand too large. Her black motorcycle jacket and tight black pants seem distinctly...  _butch_.

Bemused, Haji stares at the weird display for a moment before it hits him.

_Ah._

Those are two  _men_.

Repressing a cringe—prude that he is, he is not the most unbiased person in the world, either—Haji turns to go.

Until he realizes what caught his initial focus. He  _knows_ one of those men.

Even in the dark, there is something familiar about the first man's neat brown hair, the shape of his jaw. They break apart with gasps, and, as the first man chuckles, his profile is outlined in pink neon.

Haji freezes.

_Niklas?_

For a moment, he wonders if he is mistaken. Joel Goldschmidt's stepson in a place like this, kissing a man in public— _rouler une pelle_ —is  _unheard of_ _._  But the longer he looks, the more sure he is. That  _is_ Niklas. Niklas, in jeans and an expensive bomber-jacket. Niklas, who, with his back to the street, does not realize Haji can see him.

And Haji has no intention of letting him.

If they meet out here, it would open up a world of potentially awkward questions.

 _This,_ Haji concludes briskly,  _is not my business._

But in the back of his mind, certain tantalizing clues fall into place. What Niklas had meant when explaining that  _student radicals_  in the Paris riots were his friends. What he meant when he'd said:  _People are always ready to condemn what they can't understand…_

 _I suppose he would know all about it,_  Haji concludes _._ _No wonder he sounded as though he did not get along with his stepfather._

It makes him feel foolish, for getting defensive when Saya was warming up to Niklas. She is, in the profoundest sense,  _not his type._

Then Niklas' companion murmurs, audible enough for Haji's heightened senses to catch: "It's getting crowded here, Nikki. Let's take our leave now."

The voice— _that voice_ —hits Haji with the force of a banderilla to the spine. A jolt paralyses him all the way to his fingers' ends.

He  _knows_  that voice.

From the corners of his mind, he hears again, impossibly clear:

_It's getting late, Diva. Brother Amshel is waiting. Let's take our leave now._

In a fertile rush of anamnesis, he is flung back to Berlin—not four years ago—but all the way back to 1945. The era where Hitler's Third Reich had faced its downfall. The Soviets had entered the Brandenburg Gate and invaded Berlin, shooting and slaughtering their way toward Hitler's chancellery. In the wake of lootings, massacres, houses raided and bodies strung from lampposts, the area was a Chiropterans' paradise.

Saya and Haji had been sent there because Amshel and Diva were sighted in the periphery. There were reports that Amshel, a financier of the SS and a fervent supporter of Hitler's 'Thousand Year Reich', had foreseen Germany's downfall and defected in favor of the Allies.

Saya and Haji's objective was to intercept him and Diva, before they fled the city.

Except, with Saya's Long Sleep fast-approaching, it had proven impossible.

Haji still remembers how, as Saya's languor worsened, he'd left her resting in the tightly-sealed cellar of an empty house. How he'd been scavenging the area for Chiropterans, confident he was close enough to return to her in case of emergency. Suddenly, he'd seen a sleek 1940s Pontiac parked in the street. That itself had set off alarms. Most of the area's existing vehicles had been trashed in air-raids. The only conveyances that moved on four wheels anymore were the Soviet's tanks.

A young man had leaned by the Pontiac, cigarette lit. His well-pressed uniform and shining medals indicated he was one of the Allies. A captain. Under his hat, wisps of blond hair framed a startlingly youthful face.

Except there was an air about him, a dangerous coolness, that made Haji's hackles rise.

A young woman had been with him—a darkhaired beauty in a stylish white gown. Someone who should not have been outdoors at all, with all the opportunistic soldiers aprowl.

It had taken Haji a moment to realize she was dancing, in a graceful faerie circle—around a heap of bloodless bodies.

And another to realize that her mouth was dripping blood.

_Diva…_

No sooner had Haji recognized her—no sooner had he understood that the young man was  _her_ __Chevalier__ —when the man had playfully proffered his arm:

_It's getting late, Diva. Brother Amshel is waiting. Let's take our leave now._

And now, in an eerie mind-frag, all the years since he's last heard that voice dissolve, even as the events just moments ago fade beyond recall.

Unable to believe it, Haji turns.

Beneath a tangle of blond curls, familiar green eyes flash. The slow, ironic smile shows fangs.

_Oh God._

It is the same face. The same smile.

_The same Chevalier._

Suddenly, in a way Haji failed to grasp before, he realizes why his senses have been vibrating all this time. Not because of the city. It is because—there is not a bone (and the irony of that word does not escape him) in his body that doubts it— _Diva_  is in town.

Diva, and all her Chevaliers—including that one with  _Niklas_.

As for Niklas—could he not  _know_? It is impossible. Someone like him, raised by Red Shield, would surely recognize a Chevalier on sight. But why on earth is he out there, delivering himself into the arms of Death, unless—

Something skitters through Haji's mind, so blurred that his consciousness instinctively rejects it. As if, after bedding Saya, the overwhelming wish-fulfillment has turned him dreamy and insane.

_No._

He understands exactly what he is seeing. Understands, and instinctively vanishes off the streets in a blur.

Because if Niklas and that Chevalier are affiliated in a way Haji suspects they are—then it is  _imperative_  that they not see him.

And equally imperative that Haji  _follow_  them.

* * *

They take off fast down the street.

Looking, Haji thinks, not like lovers, but like two good friends—university students perhaps—out for a night of revelry. Their heads are close together, lips moving. Haji wishes, from his point on the rooftops, that he knew what they were saying.

He swoops fast along their wake, roof to roof, the city a blur of lights around him. The night air is so chilly he cannot feel his face.

But inside, his blood burns with adrenaline.

He tails them, in a matter of moments, into 416 East 55th Street—Sutton Place. They stop at a building that might have once been a garage, but is now the facade of a nightspot. Uniformed doormen guard thick wooden gates that spill light, music and perfumed warmth at every opening. The overhanging sign reads, simply:  _~Le Club~_

Niklas and the Chevalier waltz in as if they own the place.

From his vantage at a rooftop, Haji watches them disappear through the doors. Inside, he catches a glimpse of elegant European wallpaper and the blaze of golden chandeliers. Carefully, he studies the entrance. Well-lit, fashionable. Dapper gentlemen traverse the red-canopied carpet. The bouncers do not ask them to sign any guest-book—a tactic often employed by unlicensed bars to make it seem that they are private discotheques.

This is a bona fide men's lounge.

After a moment's reflection, Haji swoops unnoticed from the roof and makes his way to the entrance. But the bouncers' suspicious glare stops him short.

"May I see your passkey, sir?"

"Passkey?" Haji asks.

The left bouncer glowers. "This club is members only. If you have no passkey, then I can't let you in."

Haji pauses. He can feel the bouncer's contemptuous glare on his unconventionally long hair and avant-garde suit. The man must think he is some sort of  _enfant terrible._ A beatnik.

Were things different, Haji would slip in an 'entrance fee' and grease his way in. But he has no money on him.

Wherein, he suspects acidly, lies the answer to why he never gets any respect.

"I see." Perhaps he can sneak in through the rear entrance. "I must have left my passkey at the hotel."

The bouncers fix narrowed eyes on Haji until he leaves. At the streetcorner, Haji fades into shadow, waiting for a well-timed distraction to slip in through the club's backdoors. When, quite suddenly, an idea hits him. He remembers how the little pickpocket at Times Square had been fanning his mark—

_If I can just try something similar…_

He does not have to wait long. In ten minutes, a pair of middle-aged gentlemen, both a little worse for drink, spill out of the entrance. Haji watches, keen-eyed, as one of them pockets a passkey into his overcoat. As they mince off, Haji makes his way toward them. And, lurching as if drunk, bumps 'accidentally' against the gentleman with the key.

" 'M terribly sorry," he mumbles, straightening the man's coat.

His victim curses him, but moves on.

Leaving Haji to make his way back to the club, fingering the stolen passkey with a faint smile.

 _Use not only all the gifts you have—but all that you can borrow,_ Joel had once said.

He may not have meant it in  _this_  manner—but Haji has never been averse to improvisation.

Upon his return, the bouncers scowl. "Look, pal. I thought we told you to—"

Hostility melts to eager smiles when Haji produces the passkey.

"It was in my back pocket," he says, measured and ironic. "I don't usually keep it there."

No questions asked. Scraping apologetically, the bouncers let him pass. The one on the left even leaps to open the door for him.

* * *


	28. Syncopation

 

* * *

 **Syncopation:** A disturbance in the flow of rhythm

* * *

Red Shield's townhouse is in turmoil.

Operatives fly from room to room. Others are on phones, tallying facts, corresponding data. The reek of panic fills the air.

"Five bodies found in Chinatown. Five more discovered at Carnegie Hall. Reports of six bloodless corpses found in Central Park!" Joel's face is beet-red, overheating. "Everywhere our network turns, they discover  _corpses_!"

Saya and David stand facing his desk.

"Is this enough evidence that Diva is in the city?" Saya snaps. "Or are there  _more_ escaped Chiropterans you failed to mention?"

Joel ignores this, as he seemingly ignores her tone. "You are  _certain_ you eliminated all the Chiropterans at the Borough of Richmond?"

She glares at him. "If you're casting doubt on our efforts, I will leave right now. Use your common sense. One of Diva's Chevaliers slipped past your guards and into my room. He left me two tickets to the Metropolitan Opera. Shortly after, your scouts received news of bodies in the city. It means one thing.  _Diva is here_!"

"It may be a trap," Joel says. "That Chevalier could have been goading you! And this body-trail could be a ploy to get Red Shield's attention! Incense us into sending you to the Met!"

"Which, either way, is a chance to take Diva down!"

"You are in no position to know that. This organization does not run on  _your_ say-so."

Eyes narrowed, Saya spreads her palms on the table. "I know you spoke with Haji earlier. I know—because he  _told_ me—that I would receive free reign in future assignments."

"This is not an assignment! This is a suicide mission! Red Shield cannot send its trump card into a  _catastrophe_!"

"Wrong. You cannot send your trump card into a catastrophe that  _you_ have nothing to profit from. Your only concern is that my going to the Met might cause violence. Which the city authorities will connect with  _you_.  _The only thing holding you back is cowardice_!"

Joel recoils as if struck. "I will  _not_  be spoken to in this manner! Whatever your delusions about Red Shield, this organization still exists to defeat Diva. Something we cannot do, if you are  _dead_!"

"I could have died at Staten Island, too, Or on any assignment Red Shield has given me in the past. The risks aren't less. Only  _different_."

"You are wrong. What  _is_ different is that we have no idea what we're dealing with! Who knows what trap awaits at the Met! Who knows what our teams might face there? What's more, you are without your own  _Chevalier_! How can you succeed in battle, without your right-hand man?"

Now it is Saya's turn to recoil. The remark on Haji's absence fills the air like a foul stench. She stammers, "Haji—Haji is—"

"With respect, Saya and her Chevalier often work separately," David intervenes. His tone is bland as chickenfeed. "They've done so before. In Japan. In England. It's possible that, after hearing of these recent killings, Haji is scouting the city. I'm confident he'll return soon."

Joel nods. "In that case, you are to head out as well. Search for clues on these attacks. If enough evidence confirms Diva's presence, we will formulate a plan to capture her. If not, Saya's visit to the Met will be forgone."

Saya glowers. "I will not await your instructions to carry out my duty."

Joel's eyes blaze. "Your  _duty_ , first and foremost, is to  _us_! Do not forget that we are financing you! You are being held under our protection—"

" _Protection_? A few hours ago, a Chevalier broke into my room! While your security team was oblivious! And you have the  _nerve_  to—"

Joel raises a warning finger. "Do not test my patience, Saya. I tolerate your insolence only because your Chevalier has assured me you will fulfill your responsibilities! But push me too far, and I swear—"

"Sir?" An anxious operative knocks on the half-open door. "I'm sorry, but you asked to be informed the moment we heard from Niklas."

Joel rises from his seat, tense. "And? Where the Devil is he?"

"That's just it, sir. I'm afraid the last person to see him was his secretary. But that was yesterday. There has been no sign of him since then."

Joel flinches, dismay apparent in every lineament. Saya cannot think of a time she has seen him look so rattled.

She and David exchange looks. After a beat, David ventures, "Is there a problem, sir?"

"Ye-es." Joel runs distracted hands through his hair. "I'm afraid my son, Niklas, has—disappeared. No one has heard from him in over forty-eight hours. The family is quite distraught. This is not—well, I will not say it isn't  _like_  him—he has always been an irresponsible idiot. Even so, at a time like this—killings happening everywhere…" He trails off. His bleak expression is an echo of Saya's own fears about Haji.

The fear of losing someone you have repeatedly wronged.

Of being unable to take it back.

On impulse, Saya says, "If we head into the city, David and I can search for him."

Joel turns to face her. " _You_ —? Why would you look for him? You do not—"

"Know him?" She holds Joel's look coolly. "Haji and I did speak with him, if briefly. Not long after we arrived in New York. If I go out with David, we'll keep a lookout for him." Her gaze shades. "It—isn't good, to have family missing. Not at a time like this."

Joel nods vaguely. But his eyes are strange. He looks at Saya as if he's never truly seen her before.

"Y-yes," he says. "I imagine so. All the same—" the words come with difficulty. "—Th-thank you. I understand—this is not your duty."

Saya finds herself using words Haji had, years ago. "Not everything is about  _duty_."

"Perhaps." Joel swallows. "But now—you will excuse me. I-I must go."

Without another word, he quits the office. The Red Shield operative trails after him.

Bemused, David and Saya stare after him.

"Damn," David says. "That guy oughtta lose family members more often."

* * *

By ten o' clock at night, Saya has swept through a dozen abandoned subway platforms all the way to Brooklyn Bridge, explored empty walk-ups reeking of more filth than she's smelled in all her decades alive, heard come-ons and insults in over a dozen different languages, ridden enough rattling trains to suffer motion-sickness, gotten bodily shoved out of a seedy bar at Spanish Harlem, and developed the beginnings of a migraine.

But there is no sign of Chiropterans. Or Diva and her Chevaliers. Or Niklas.

_Or Haji._

When she reaches hers and David's rendezvous point, a noisy all-night diner at 7th and Second, David is already there. The windows behind him are steamed up from the snowfall outside. He sits hunched in a rear booth, coat and hat dripping.

But his expression tells the same news as hers.

No luck.

"So far, our intel claims that  _all_ the bodies have fangmarks on their necks," David says, as she slumps into the red vinyl seat opposite to him. "Two  _different_  sets of fangs."

"Which means two different Chevaliers. Or one Chevalier, and  _Diva_."

"There's no way of knowing for sure."

"Yes, there is."

"How?"

Saya points to her mouth. "Diva is my twin. In all likelihood, her jaw's as wide as mine. And her fangs, if not identical, probably have a similar shape. Tell your men to compare the bitemarks on the bodies with Red Shield's stats. If they're similar, we'll be able to confirm Diva's presence."

David nods. "I'll get in touch with our guys. Let 'em know." He pushes one of two steaming coffee cups toward her. "But what about that Chevalier? The one who left tickets in your room? Did he give any indication that Diva might actually  _be_ here?"

Her brow furrows. "Under all the rubbish he said... nothing. In that respect, Joel had a point. He could've just been goading me into going to the Met."

"So there's no guarantee this isn't a trap."

"No." Her mouth hardens. "Even so. We can't let this chance slip away."

David nods again. "If our shit's wired tight enough, we can probably convince the Bossman to let us go. Sure, he'll jaw about  _collateral damage_ for a few millennia. But if we agree to keep this on the DL, we'll get his permission."

"DL is the  _last_  word I'd use for combat," Saya says. "And that's exactly what Joel is afraid of. Any trouble would put him under the US government's spotlight."

David noisily slurps his coffee. "That, and the old fart's got enough on his plate with his stepson missing. If I had sympathy to spare, I'd feel sorry for him."

Saya drums her fingers on the table. Her own coffee rests untouched. "I couldn't find Niklas, either. Not that half the places I checked were ones  _he'd_ frequent. But still. There isn't a person I've ever talked to whose blood I couldn't trace afterwards. Except manhunting in this city is like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"Screw needle. We don't even have a goddamned  _haystack_." David pauses. "But maybe Niklas' case is like Haji says. You can't find someone who doesn't want to be found."

"You think that's why Niklas is missing? He's  _hiding_?"

David shrugs. "I've been around Joel and Niklas Goldschmidt enough to twig that they don't get along. Niklas calls his stepfather an overbearing touch-hole. And Daddy Dearest disapproves of the… company, Niklas keeps."

"Company?"

"I don't care fuck-all for gossip. But I do have instincts. Let's just say Niklas runs with a very... queer crowd.  _Don't Ask, Don't Tell_ , as they'd say in the army."

"Queer?" It takes a moment before the message sinks in. Saya's eyes widen. "You mean he's—?"

"Aye to the thirteen power." David raises an eyebrow. "What? You met the guy and couldn't tell?"

"No. He seemed... fine."

"Fine? The hell is  _fine_ about a guy who polishes his fingernails? I'm telling you: the kid's a shirtlifter. You can tell by one gander at him. Prissy. Well-dressed. Loves opera and the arts..."

"I could say that same thing about Haji," Saya says. "And we both know he's not—" She cuts herself off.

What does she really know about Haji anymore? Only what he  _chooses_ to tell her. With the war, she has come to rely on him more and more. But also come to  _understand_  him less and less—a syncopation.

_We've drifted apart._

_All this time, we've fought side-by-side. But we've become total strangers._

A casualty of time? Or her punishment for shutting him out?

Her lapse doesn't go unnoticed by David. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. There is a flash of something in his eyes that she half-doesn't want to face. "What's up with Haji, anyway? Did he go out for groceries and disappear?"

"What do you mean?"

David shrugs. "Back at the townhouse, you seemed... off when Goldschmidt mentioned him. What's up?"

Saya's fingers tighten on her mug. "I—I don't know."

" _You don't know_? What's that mean?"

Saya wants to tell David to shut up. This is none of his concern. Except it  _is_. Riffs between teammates only detract from the Mission. As David has put it often enough:  _If you can't count on your own allies, who can you count on?_

"Saya?" David is wearing what passes as his Concerned Comrade Face. "What the hell's going on?"

She isn't ready to answer this question. But there is no sharp retort ready. She is tired of dissembling; wearing this four-flush face to appear strong and confident, when what she wants most is to tear her own hair out.

For a moment, she's tempted to grill David about Haji's indiscretion in Berlin. Did he know about it? Did he know the girl? Was she a member of David's team?

Except asking the question would be tantamount to admitting it  _bothers_ her. And it should not.

Her problems with Haji are no-one's business.

Besides, David and Haji's camaraderie is something that goes on quite apart from her. She has only a bird's eye view on it. It isn't fair to question him about Haji's doings. She knows her Chevalier well enough to understand how much he values privacy.

Making David her confidant… David, who has frequent interactions with Haji…

She cannot do that. If Haji  _does_ abandon the Mission, she'd rather David not have to side between them later.

"Haji and I..." She takes a breath. "Look. I don't want to get into it. All you need to know is that things aren't straight between us."

David grimaces. "Is this one of those grody  _Knowledge Doesn't Empower_ ;  _It Only Disturbs_ details? 'Cause if so, my advice is: get your shit in one sock. We have bigger problems."

She wants to snap:  _Don't you think I know that?_ Instead, she exhales. "You're right. I just—" Her throat closes. "I—I'm just wondering..."

"What?"

She looks away. "I think Haji's going to give up the Mission. He's going to leave."

Her gorse swells at the thought. How much confusion, despair, those words hold for her. At the same time, saying them makes her cringe, because their undertones are so  _childish_. Less a seasoned warrior's fears than those of a silly girl. A girl who needs to hold someone's hand to feel secure.

She forces herself meet David's eye. To her surprise, he snorts. "Bullshit."

"What?"

"Haji's not gonna leave. That's the dumbest thing I ever heard. Next, Joel Goldschmidt'll grow tits and fly away."

She stares at him. "You don't think it's possible—?"

"Not in this lifetime." David's tone is no-nonsense. "I've known Haji for decades. He's a snotty prig with a ramrod up the ass. But he's no quitter. Never will be, so long as this war exists. Or you do."

"Me?"

"Yeah." He stares at her like she's insane. "Jesus. Never figured you for such a twit. You think Haji's with Red Shield for the free dental care? Everybody knows you're in this war to kill Diva. Just like they know he's in it for you. It's a two-way street. You've always been—"

"Always," Saya says quietly. "That's just it. There is no  _always_. Situations change. So do people."

"People  _alter_ ," David corrects. "They adapt. But deep down, no one forgets their roots. And Haji's roots are with you. There's no…  _off-switch_ for that."

"But he has other choices. We both know it. He told me, when he was in Berlin, he lost sight of the Mission. That must mean he forgot about me." She winces as soon as she says this. She doesn't owe David her inner confidences, or Haji's.

If David knows what she is talking about, he doesn't react. Draining his coffee cup, he sets it aside. He clears his throat, and Saya braces herself. "One thing I wanna say on that subject."

"What?"

"If Haji did forget the mission, for one second, it was to keep from going crazy. Because you  _do_ go crazy, when your alpha-and-omega is gone, and you gotta go it alone. You have to forget once in a while, or you'll lose yourself too. He talked to me about that, during your Long Sleep. I'm not supposed to repeat this to you—but fuckit. He was all torn up about  _losing sight of his duty_. He thought it was because you weren't there. The world was changing, and he was changing with it. And, get a load of this—it scared him shitless. Because it meant he'd forgotten who he was. Forgotten you. He just didn't get it."

"Didn't get what?"

David shrugs. "The fact that you change with what goes on around you. But you don't stop being who you are. Like mercury, y'know? It takes on the shape of whatever holds it. But it's still the same."

"But just the fact that he doubted himself…" Saya shakes her head. "That has to mean something. It must mean that his perspective's changed. Maybe he's realized—"

_That not everything is about me. That not everything has to be._

David grunts. "What? You think a little turbulence means the destination's out-of-reach? So the guy made a mistake. Doesn't mean he's branded for life."

"But don't you think it means something? That it proves how he wants out of the Mission?"

"Wants out, my lily-white ass. All it proves is what a momentous tard he is. If he wanted to tell you the truth, at least he could've told  _all_  of it. Then again, what can you expect from a guy with the vocabulary of a windowlicker."

" _David_."

A shrug. "Just calling him as I see him." Sobering, he meets her eye. "Haji won't leave the Mission. Not unless you give him the kiss-off first. And I fucking well hope it doesn't come to that."

She nods slowly. Half-hating herself for wondering if he is being honest, or simply saying this to make her feel better.

"But then... where is he?" she asks. "Why did he disappear?"

David idly cracks his knuckles. "Best-case scenario: He got jabbed in the eye with an umbrella-spoke, bumped into a mugger, got robbed down to those weird banana-hammock thingies you Euros pass for underwear, and is now streaking his merry way down Times Square."

She grimaces. "And the worst-case scenario?"

"He really  _did_  go out for groceries, and got his manorexic ass stampeded by last-minute Christmas shoppers. They say the NYC housewives go batshit at this time of the year. "

She shakes her head. "You know, David, you aren't making me feel good. In fact, you're making things worse."

David sighs. "Yeah, my wife sometimes says that. Usually when we're in the middle of the horizontal hokey pokey."

"Horizontal hokey—?" Saya chokes mid-gulp on her coffee. "Oh  _God_."

The diner's door swings open. Startled, she and David glance up.

It is the Blueleg, George. Hair soggy with melted snow, edges of his pants dripping as though he's raced over here on foot.

" _Officer?_   _Officer David?_!"

"Nothing like keeping a low profile," David says, noticing all the patrons staring at them. He waves George over. "What is it, soldier? Hedgehog crawl out your ass?"

"Worse!" Panting, George runs both hands through his draggled hair. "We just received reports of more killings! At Coney Island!"

Saya blinks. "The amusement park?"

"That's right. Forty minutes ago, police discovered corpses of seven teenagers under the boardwalk. But before they could call in for back-up, half their teams disappeared. There's reports of  _strange beasts_ prowling the area. The whole place's been shut down for security. The department commissioner's requested Red Shield to check it out."

David pinches the bridge of his nose. "So much for keeping this on the DL."

"It could be Diva and her Chevalier," Saya interposes, already leaping to her feet. "If we get there fast enough, we might still be able to catch them.  _Come on_!"

* * *

Sirens wail from the Surf Ave to the midway. Squad cars roar through the streets. Red and blue lights flash everywhere.

When Saya arrives with George and David, a light curtain of snow is falling. Policemen and paramedics are gathered in dense rings around two ambulances. Between the blur of uniforms, glinting badges and leather jackets, Saya makes out bodies being laden onto bloodstained gurneys.

She, David, and George duck under the white security tape, moving through the furor.

"What's the rush, Grandpa?" A burly youth in a canvas hat with ear-flaps rudely blocks David's path.

Scowling, David thrusts his ID at him. The young man regards it for a moment, winces, then hands it back with a sheepish salute.

"Sorry, Officer. I'm with Red Shield too. Just keeping the civilians out."

David nods briskly. "Where were those bodies found?"

"Wahington's Baths, sir. The police teams went missing a few blocks way. There were fifteen men in all."

David nods again. "How many Red Shield operatives are on the scene?"

"Thirty, sir. All under direct radio control."

"Good. Have them split into six teams altogether. Tell 'em to spread out to scope the area. Three teams take Astroland and Luna Park. Three more scout Steeplechase Park. If you find anything, don't act independently. Call for back-up, pronto!"

"Yes, sir!" The operative takes off running.

"Um, what about  _us_?" George asks. "What places do  _we_ check out?"

David's face gleams pink in the flashing squad-lights. "All the ones in between. The darker and creepier, the better."

"Like where?"

In answer, Saya taps the boardwalk with her boot. " _This_ , for starters. Let's go."

* * *

They move carefully under the planks.

The darkness around them is slatted with stripes of orange light from the walkway lamps above. In the distance, muffled sirens and screeching police cars compete with the roar of seawaves. The air is thick with seasalt, rotting garbage and fish.

"Phew," George grimaces. "You gotta love this city. Everyplace has a special brand of  _stench_."

"We're not here on a sniff-test, George," David snaps. " _She_ is." He turns to Saya. "You picking up anything?"

Saya's eyes glow red. The edges of her nostrils twitch. "I think so. There's… something here."

"Like what?"

She inhales. A complex mélange saturates her senses: the scrabbling of seagulls and rats, the policemen's footsteps resonating on the boardwalks above, the slosh of water, the scented layers of life and decay.

And traces of something else. Tangy and tantalizing.  _Someone_.

A chill seeps down her spine.

"Diva," she whispers.

"What?"

" _Diva_. She was here."

David exchanges looks with George. "You're serious?"

"I am." She inhales again. "Except..."

"What?"

"The smell... isn't fresh. She was in this area, all right. But that was hours ago." She glances at George. "What time did the police's teams disappear?"

George scratches his cheek. "The last report was three hours back. Why?"

"Because Diva's scent is  _more_  than three hours old. If she was here, then it wasn't during the time the police got attacked. Someone  _else_  was responsible."

"Like who?" David demands. "One of her Chevaliers?"

"Maybe." Saya's eyes shift to the shimmering city lights, reflected in the water. Wind blows across the shoreline. Again, she catches traces of Diva's scent. And underneath that, sparks of something far more recent.

Something like—

"That's strange," she says.

"Huh? What's strange?"

"There's a fresher scent in the air. Like Diva's, but not quite. I think it's a Chevalier. The same one who left tickets in my room."

David frowns. "How can you be sure?"

"I don't know. I just am. It's like when he broke into my room. I didn't smell a threat, because his scent was different from the others. More... familiar. Like somehow, I knew it before." She takes a long draught of the air. "I can smell it here too."

George raises a hand. "Okay. Am I the only one finding all this talk of Chiro-funk a smidge disturbing?" When they ignore him, he sighs. "Man, I miss Lou."

"Wait," David says. "If you can  _still_ smell this Chevalier, then he's probably nearby. I'll radio our teams to keep a lookout—"

"No." Saya cuts him off. "I wouldn't do that."

"Why not?"

She points to her ears. "Chiropteran senses, remember? If he overhears something over the radios, he'll escape in no time. It's better if we give the impression of ignorance. Catch him off guard."

"And how're we gonna do that?"

"I'll find him myself."

" _Whoa_." George waves his hands. "Hold on. I'm all for the Lay Chilly tactic. But is it a good idea for you to head out alone?" When Saya glares at him, he winces. "Hey, no offense. I'm sure you've dished out your share of curbstompings. But right now, maybe it's better to go with the Hide it or Divide it routine, yeah?"

Frowning, Saya glances at David. "Do you have any idea what he just said?"

"Not a clue," David mutters. "From the gist of it though, he's right. You shouldn't go solo. It's risky."

Saya shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. If that Chevalier  _is_ here, he'll be able to sense where  _I_ am too. If we end up fighting, I'd prefer no human casualties."

David looks stubborn. "Not arguing with that, Saya. But you need someone to watch your back. With Haji gone AWOL, it's dangerous to—"

Saya's glare cuts him short.

Exhaling, David backs down. "Fine. Suit yourself." He reaches into his coat. "Just in case, take this."

Saya squints at the large red pistol he hands her. "A water gun?"

" _Water gun_? What're you, nuts? This is a Verey."

"It's very what—?"

"Not  _very_. A  _Verey_. A flare-gun. If you run into trouble, just fire this baby into the air. It'll send a distress signal and tell us your location."

"Fine." Reluctantly, Saya pockets the gun. "But what about you? What will  _you_ use if you're in any danger?"

David shrugs. "George."

"What?"

"Um, yeah," George says. " _What_?"

David turns innocently to the Blueleg. "Well, as a last resort, I can always shoot you in the foot. If  _your_ screaming doesn't get half of Brooklyn here,  _nothing_ will."

* * *

Saya moves through the empty midway.

Skeeball and sideshow booths stretch out around her. Wind whistles eerily through the towering structures above. Everything is dark, shuttered—an abnormal concept for an amusement park. The grotesque clown-faces on the stalls, the carousel horses with their flat gleaming eyes, the stuffed toys grinning vacantly in the racks, all seem to leer at her.

_This doesn't feel like an amusement park._

_More like a horror house_.

She remembers Haji pointing out this place, when they'd first traveled to New York in the early 1900s. Her mind, even then, was fixated on Diva. Still, she vaguely remembers the gaudy signs and raucous crowds, the overpowering scent of watermelon and roasted peanuts. Dreamland and Luna Park were new then—a human platter for Chiropterans. All those flashing lights and roiling crowds, the chiming music and canned laughter, had been intoxicating.

_This place has changed so much since then._

_But Haji and I—our duty—that hasn't changed at all._

Or is she just deluding herself? Have she and Haji changed on the inside too, silent and poisonous as a cancer. Is that the reason they're both so broken up now?

_Is that the reason he's not here?_

The realization stabs her. She feels, perhaps for the first time, the disorientation of being alone, in a world where she does not belong. A world that is perhaps better off without her.

 _Outside of Haji, no one here even_ knows  _me_.  _To Red Shield, I'm not even a person. I'm just a weapon._

But to Haji...

 _'You keep insisting that you aren't the same person anymore. But I think perhaps you protest too much. You_ are _the same Saya. That's why you are still here.'_

Her throat tightens. She inhales, shaking it off.

_Don't think about that right now._

She has to fulfill her duty. No sense getting distracted.

Eyes alert, she moves through the walkway. Her shadow stretches ahead in silent company. At a corner, a sudden movement catches her eye. She tenses, hand on sword—then relaxes.

It is only a funhouse mirror. It distorts her reflection into a shapeless blob, stretching her legs and neck unnaturally long. Saya moves to go—

When she hears a sudden rustle.

 _Danger_.

She spins toward the source of the noise. In the distance, through the swirling snow, a dark figure is visible.

_Moving straight for her._

Reflex takes over. Whipping one of the  _shivs_ from her boot, she aims eyeblink-fast and throws.

The  _shiv_ glints as it spins through the air. But just before it strikes its target, a slim hand catches it in mid-air, stopping the point inches from impact.

"Tut tut," a singsong voice says. "Is that any way to greet your elders?"

Saya tenses, reaching for another  _shiv_.

And, in a sudden dazzling flare, spotlights erupt before her face.

Gasping, she drops into a crouch, instinctively whipping her sword out. She lifts the other arm to shield herself from the glare. Squinting at where the intruder is visible.

Dreadlocks. Dark suit. Ghoulish smile.

_It's him._

The mysterious Chevalier is perched on a sideshow booth above the walkway, legs kicking merrily through the air. His grin is bright as a dagger.

"Hel _lo_ , princess!"

Arm raised against the blinding light, Saya glowers. " _You_."

The Chevalier laughs, high and shrill. He throws his arms out as if freefalling:

"It's  _show time_!"

No sooner do the words leave his mouth, when every light in Astroland, every ride, every stall, blazes with motion and color and sound. Fireworks erupt glittering and spectacular, seeming to ignite the sky. Carousels whirl to eerie clanging music.

Saya reels from the terrifying sensory explosion. In the empty park, all this extravagant noise and color is chilling, the vacant rides and skirling melodies like parodies of themselves.

The Chevalier laughs again, his eyes all lit up like a child's on Christmas morning. Sweeping an arm out like an orchestra conductor, he hurls a preternatural energy-bolt at her.

Saya ducks as the indigo streak  _zings_  past her head. The toy display stand behind her explodes into flame. Blistering heat spews. Something slices her cheek, and when she swipes at it, her hand comes away bloody.

Rolling aside, she realizes she is unprotected out here. Nothing to shield her.

Then, out of nowhere, the Chevalier swoops in. Saya leaps to her feet—just in time to see a fist  _zooming_  at her. She ducks, riposting with her sword to block a second whistling blow. The Chevalier pirouettes away, hair rippling around him in perfect black corkscrews. Snarling, Saya sweeps a leg out; he evades fluidly, a wide grin slashing his face. His wild laughter blends with the carnival music.

They face off on the boardwalk. Blow for blow, slice and block, feint and parry. Saya has no time to plan, to react, to  _think_ —pure instinct guides her. Her opponent seems to move at lightning speed. Eyes alight, fists flashing in blurs.

He looks exactly as he did at the apartment. As if he is playing a game.

 _Testing_ her.

Then Saya jabs at him with her sword, and he vanishes in a flash. He is behind her in the next instant, trapping her in a headlock. Saya freezes, fingers clamped on her sword-hilt. They are both breathing hard; his humming pulse overlaps hers.

"Very  _good_ , my dear. I'm so proud of you. Give yourself another few decades, and you'll be all geared up for the  _final act_!"

"What _—_?" Saya struggles in his grip. " _Let me go_!"

A nervy grin. "If you insist. It was a  _fabulous_ rehearsal, though. Be sure to rest up for the big night tomorrow, hmm? After this charming interlude, I'm  _certain_ we'll see you there!"

His lips brush her cheek. A goodbye kiss.

Incensed, Saya twists and growls.

"Wha-a-at?" The Chevalier titters. "And here I thought that's how they say  _tootle-loo_  in France. Talk about  _jumpy_!" A finger presses the nerve behind her ear. "I think  _someone_  needs a lit- _tle_  cat nap."

Saya opens her mouth to snarl.

And the finger presses down.

 _Hard_.

Little dots march behind her eyes. From far away, she hears someone  _scream_ , but isn't sure who. In one rushing, paralyzing moment, every pain she has ever experienced in her lifetime seems to flood through her body, concentrating on where the finger is pressed to her skin.

Then everything goes black.

* * *

"Saya?"

Her eyelids flutter. Strains of tinny music float into her ears. Huge pounding ache, backed up in her skull. The slightest movement makes her stomach churn; she swallows bile.

"Saya?" A familiar male voice. Something in her line of vision, dark. Hands on her shoulders. "Saya—are you all right?"

"I—my head—"

"Please. Stay still. I am not sure what that Chevalier did to you. Your eyes are unfocused."

She squints. Around her, Astroland is still illuminated like a circus. Colorful distinct beams of light, falling from the flashing rides, dapple the face of the man above her. A diagonal stripe of yellow lights up his blue eyes.

"D-David...?" she says.

A pause. "I have never heard you say David's name in  _that_ tone."

Her eyes widen. There is no mistaking his voice.

In few a moments, the scene resolves. She is lying on her back on the walkway. Her sword lies a few feet off. And kneeling anxiously over her is—

"Ha-Haji?"

"Saya—please stay still." His voice is grave. "Are you all right? You were out for thirty minutes."

"What...?" She sits up despite his warnings. The scenery blurs, strobelike. She swallows more bile. "Wh-what happened? That Chevalier...?"

"He escaped. I lost sight of him beyond the Parachute Jump."

"Escaped...?" She gives her head a rough shake. Vision resolves, carrying with it renewed awareness. Muscles stiff; back of her head throbbing where she must've hit it when falling down.

Haji kneels beside her, close enough to touch. But part of her wonders if he is even real.

She reaches a hand out. Whether to examine him or hug him, she isn't sure. But at the last moment, uncertainty turns to anger; her smack glances off his arm.

"Ugh!" Haji jerks back. "Saya, what—?"

" _Where have you been_?"

Haji hesitates. In the ambience, his face seems cold, thin-lipped. But the eyes are soft. "I am sorry if I worried you. But I recently discovered something vital."

"I know. Diva's in this city."

He blinks. "How did you—?"

"I can smell her here. And I was tipped off earlier, by that same Chevalier. He slipped into my room. Left tickets for the Metropolitan Opera, claiming Diva would be there."

"He—slipped into your room?" Haji's eyes narrow. "Saya, did he try to—?"

"No." She pauses. "He did nothing, actually. Just made some off-color insults… About my breasts."

Haji seems relieved. Then he frowns. "Your breasts are lovely. What on earth is wrong with them?"

An awkward silence.

Shaking it off, she asks, "Haji—how did you get here? How did you know where I was?"

"I followed you."

"What? Then why didn't you show yourself? For a minute, I-I thought you'd—"  _Left the mission._ She shakes it off. "Why didn't you  _say_  something?"

"I noticed that Chevalier tailing you before you entered Coney Island. So I tailed him. It seemed unwise to reveal myself. Especially if there was a chance others could be nearby."

She bites her lip. "You think it's true, then? Could Diva really be at this Met performance?"

"More than likely. I saw another one of her Chevaliers at Times Square. And that is not all. Niklas was with him."

"Niklas?"

He nods. "I followed them to a nearby club. The place was crowded, but I was able to parse their conversation out. They were discussing—" He falters. "Saya… Niklas is going to be made Diva's Chevalier."

" _What_?"

"They were discussing the terms for his transformation. Niklas had earlier been ordered to ship supplies of Amshel's  _special ingredient_ to Vietnam. As an exchange for attaining immortality. He is working for the enemy, Saya."

"Niklas…?" Her head spins. She knows better than to disbelieve Haji. Where the Mission is concerned, he is the only person who gives it to her straight. "But—if this is true, then we have to tell Joel!"

"We do. And it must be soon. If we do not act fast enough, Diva might have another Chevalier. One with valuable information on Red Shield." He rises, offering her a hand. "But there is something else you must see."

"What?" His too-controlled expression fills her with dread. "Wh-what is it?"

"That Chevalier. He left something nearby. Something he may have wanted you to find."

She lets him help her up, and guide her through the brightly-lit park. Beneath the whirling blaze of the Wonder Wheel, they stop at what appears to be a horror-house. The green neon sign reads: SPOOK*A*RAMA. An enormous animatronics skeleton, eyes burning red, crouches menacingly at the roof.

And beneath him, dangling by their necks like a row of hangmen, are fifteen bodies.

Of the missing police team.

Dumb with shock, Saya stares. "Wh-what—?"

The dead men sway inches from the ground, their uniforms drenched in blood. Heads lolling forward, leaking mouths open. In the Wonder Wheel's bright glow, the blood beneath them glistens dark as oil.

And written in blood are the words:

_Will You Fulfill It Now?_

"'Will you fulfill it now?'" Haji asks. "What does that mean? Fulfill what?"

Saya's eyes narrow. Without moving her gaze from the bodies, she draws David's flare-gun from her coat. Lifts it high in the air. Her voice is fraught with rage. " _Duty_."

And, as if to underline the word, she fires.

* * *

 


	29. A Bene Placito

 

* * *

 **A bene placito:**  Up to the performer

* * *

Parting the window drapes, Nathan gazes outside.

The city glitters: a beautiful metropolitan postcard. A white mist of snowfall hangs in the air. Through it, the buildings rise and fall in brilliant columns, a radiant mosaic against the night sky.

On the balcony below, he can see Diva and Karl. They are playing  _La Marelle Ronde_ —a French variation of hopscotch. A vast snail-shell is splattered on the floor, gleaming red with fresh blood. One-toed, Diva hops lightly through the shell, block after block. He hears her singing sweetly: " _'Will you walk into my parlor?' said the Spider to the Fly, 'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy..."_

Giggling, she lands with both feet in the shell's center, her white skirts swirling around her. A fine spray of blood stains the front of her ruffled blouse. The corpses she and Karl used to paint their snail-shell are bundled behind the potted plants.

Letting the drapes fall, Nathan chuckles. " _Honestly_. Our little girl has the object permanence of a  _toddler_. Does she really think hiding those bodies will make them disappear?"

Behind him, James does not answer. He sits on a sofa, both feet planted rigidly on the carpet. His gaze is fixed on the velvety black dress Nathan has given him.

"Are you sure this will work?" he snaps.

"Hmm?" Idly, Nathan turns.

Down below, he hears Karl take up the poem. " _'Oh no, no,' said the little Fly, 'to ask me is in vain, For who goes up your winding stair can never come down again...'_ "

James scowls. "I said: are you  _sure_ this will work? Amshel is not blind. He will know something is wrong."

"Oh,  _pooh_." Nathan waggles a hand. "You and Solomon are so alike that way. You both give that big man too much credit. There are  _limits_ to his influence, y'know."

The comparison to Solomon does not amuse James. His glare sharpens. "Even so. I  _still_ think this is a bad idea. As it is, we were ordered to keep away from Saya. Amshel told us not to—"

"James, James,  _James_." Nathan swivels closer as if on greased hips. "The greatest pleasures in life come from doing what people say you  _can't_ do. Surely you've heard that one before?"

James' lip curls. "I have not. Undoubtedly because whoever said it is now  _dead_."

Nathan shrugs. "Well, there's no point in taking life too seriously, anyway. As it is,  _no one_ gets out alive."

"And your plan of will certainly shorten the length mine."

Nathan's eyes twinkle. "Oh  _my_! James made a joke. This is quite an occasion. I'm not used to  _you_ being a smartass on the side."

James glowers. "I am being serious."

"Well, so am  _I_." Winking slyly, Nathan settles in the seat opposite James'. "Look. Just keep one thing in mind. The Met will be crowded. All those humans—that plethora of perfumes, colognes and B.O—would muddle even a Chiropteran's senses. And Amshel is no exception. He'll  _never_  know."

James shakes his head. "He has known Diva the longest. He will realize she is acting strangely."

"You're forgetting one thing, James. Diva  _always_ acts strangely. There's never a predictable moment with her. And that's exactly what  _enthralls_ Amshel so. Because he expects the  _unexpected_ from her. Their visit to the Met will be no different. At the most, Amshel will record her behavior for future experiments. I can see it now:  _Research method 23,074. Took Diva to opera. Observed her gnawing the fingernails of her right hand, but filing those on her left. Could this be biologically motivated? Or influenced by her environment_?" With an eyeroll, he recomposes his face. "You're reading  _much_ too deeply into this, James. Remember, I'll be keeping an eye on everything.  _That's_ the key. You'll be fine as long as you do  _everything_ I say."

James scowls again. "This is insane, Nathan. It will never work."

"Oh,  _nonsense_. Just think of it as role-playing." Coyly, Nathan fans his eyelashes down and up. "And don't tell me you've never done  _that_ before. Our little Diva regales me with  _juicy_ stories about you."

James' fingers tighten on the black dress. "Keep my business with Diva out of this."

"Oooh! So that's a  _'Yes'_ , hmm?" Nathan cackles. "Well, there's no problem, then! Just remember. Diva is more Daddy's Girl, less Sex Kitten when it comes to Amshel. The latter, she reserves for  _Solomon_. As for Karl—" He breaks off. Tilts his head to hear Diva and Karl's mad laughter resonating from the balcony. "With Karl, she's just plain  _batty_. But I guess, on some level, she realizes the different ideals all her Chevaliers have of her. So, like a seasoned harlot, she playacts a role for each one."

James' nose wrinkles. "How can you talk about her that way? She does not—she isn't—"

Nathan lets off an insolent laugh. "She isn't  _what_? Not what we  _all_ know she is? A girl you're forced to share with four other men? All because you know she'd never be happy with one?"

"Shut up! How dare you talk about her that way?"

Nathan shrugs dismissively. "Believe she's a plaster saint all you want, James. But we all know the truth. The sooner you accept it, the better off you'll be once she's finished with you. After all, we may view our precious Diva through different eyes. But it's only her  _babies_ who'll see her from any realistic dimension. And that's all Diva really cares about. You should accept that by now."

Those words snap James.

Lunging, he grabs Nathan by the throat, hauling him up and slamming him against the wall. " _Shut up! Just shut up_!"

Nathan is silent for a moment. James hopes he has gotten his point across.

But then he laughs, slow and taunting. No fear, or remorse, in his glowing red eyes. His grin has a smug edge. "Well, well. Perhaps I  _underestimated_ how strongly you feel about this." His smile fades. "But that's why I need to know, James. Here and now. Are you in on the plan, or not? Because my goal, however possible, is to give Diva babies. And once she does, she will forget you. Forget  _all_ of us. Are you prepared to risk that?"

James does not answer. For a moment, both he and Nathan are perfectly still. He feels the other man's eyes boring into him, sharp as blades. Below, Diva's bell-like laughter chimes out, mingling with Karl's hyena-howls. But everything in the room is silent.

On a deep breath, James releases Nathan. Steps back on rubbery knees, mind still fizzling with fury.

Why? Why does he always let Nathan goad him? Despoil his self-control?

Through gritted teeth, he says. "You  _know_  I am in on the plan. Whatever else, my duties are always to  _Diva_."

"Really?" Seductively, Nathan straightens. "So, even though she'll  _dump_ you once her babies arrive, you're willing to take that risk?"

"As I said. It is my duty."

Laughing merrily, Nathan breezes past James. "Oh, poor baby. Is that  _really_ what you think? Or could it be that you're even crazier than Diva?"

James eyebrow twitches. "What do you mean?"

"Oh. Like you don't already  _know_?" Pausing at the doorway, Nathan offers a wistful smile. "You believe that if you give Diva babies, she'll be yours at last. Isn't that right?" James winces, but cannot answer. Nathan titters. "Better open your eyes, James. After all, once Diva gets her wish, the truth might hit you hardest. And I would so  _deplore_ it, watching you fall to pieces. It's happened to  _too many_ of your fellow-Chevaliers, as it is."

Before James can answer, Nathan quits the room.

Only the black dress remains. Puddled on the floor like an old bloodstain.

While below, Diva sings: " _To an evil counselor, close heart and ear and eye. And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly..."_

* * *

" _Preposterous_!" Joel Goldschmidt says. "Niklas is not a  _traitor_!"

"Haji saw him at a club with Diva's Chevalier," Saya says, with forced reasonableness. It is a tone she has been using for twenty minutes now. But it is starting to wear dangerously thin.

"Oh, for God's sake! Just because  _your_ Chevalier conveniently took off—you are making excuses for him by claiming he was tailing  _Niklas_?"

"I was," Haji cuts in. Leaning by the corner wall, in a stance of deliberate passivity. But his tone, like Saya's, is firm.

Scowling, Joel glances from him to Saya. "This is a distasteful prank. Nothing more. Niklas is my  _son_. I know he would never betray Red Shield."

Saya is bemused by Joel's vehemence. Is it out of familial protectiveness? Or plain perversity?

"Just  _listen_ before you write this off," she says. "We've already established that Diva is here. The bitemarks on all those corpses match her prints. We have to focus on bringing her down. I have no reason to complicate that duty. But I'm telling you the truth.  _Haji saw Niklas with Diva's Chevalier_."

"And how, precisely, would he  _know_ it was Diva's Chevalier? As far as Red Shield's records serve, we can only confirm the existence of  _two_. Amshel Goldsmith and Gregory Rasputin."

"I have seen that particular Chevalier before," Haji says. "At Berlin. In 1945."

Joel looks skeptical. "And, despite all those decades, you happened to remember his face?"

"With our duty, we  _have_ to remember faces!" Saya snaps. "Our lives depend on it."

"That is hardly reason to assume you saw a  _Chevalier_!"

Haji shakes his head. "Monsieur, they were discussing something crucial. That Chevalier had asked Niklas to ship food supplies to Red Shield's Vietnam teams, a few weeks back. Supplies that were infused with Amshel Goldsmith's  _special ingredient_. They plan to transform your Vietnam outpost into Chiropterans."

Joel frowns, as if Haji's words have struck a chord of recognition. "Did you say... food supplies?"

Saya and Haji exchange quick looks. Feeling hopeful, Saya presses, "This has happened before, hasn't it? There have been supplies shipped to Vietnam without your consent?"

Joel nods slowly. But disbelief clouds his gaze. "Five times this month, under Niklas' signature, extra food supplies have been sent to Vietnam. Each time, the bill of lading mentions an unfamiliar shipping agent. I've questioned Niklas about it repeatedly. But he tells me it is a clerical error."

Saya leans forward. "And I'll bet you never discovered  _why_ those food supplies were shipped to Vietnam in the first place."

Joel glowers. "Because it could genuinely  _be_ a clerical error! Niklas has never been proficient at deskwork. It is negotiation where his expertise lies." The skepticism returns to his face. "This is absurd. Niklas is not a traitor. You both have lost your minds."

Saya stifles a frustrated sigh. For a moment, it seemed Joel was ready to believe them. But the opening did not last.

Then Haji says, "Monsieur, I apologize if this is impertinent. But you know that Niklas sleeps with men, don't you?"

Joel's whole body rattles as if to a gale. Eyes wide; nostrils flaring. "Wha-at" he sputters. "H-how dare you—?"

Haji speaks over his outburst. "You were having him watched, were you not? You hired a private detective to shadow him during his nighttime outings?"

Joel's mouth opens and closes. In a choked voice, he says, "How—how do you know this?"

"I heard it from Niklas himself. While he was speaking to Diva's Chevalier." Haji's eyes narrow. "Please. Answer one question. Did that detective you hired—ever mention that Niklas had a boyfriend downtown?"

There is a pause.

Woodenly, Joel nods.

"And did he happen to describe him?"

Again, a jerky nod. Joel's gaze is vacant, unspecific, as if sunk into tormented inner-depths. "He—he said that it was a young man, about Niklas' age. Well-dressed. Blond hair. Light eyes. Favoring white suits. He was fond of a peculiar drink—"

" _Cognac des Borderies_?" Haji asks.

Joel blanches, but does not answer.

"You have just described the man I saw Niklas with," Haji says. "Diva's Chevalier. They are the same person."

Flinching, Joel shuts his eyes. Haji's quiet words seem to reverberate through the room, tangling around him like a shroud. His throat works convulsively.

"This… cannot be possible."

Saya shakes her head. "The longer you keep insisting that, the more time we'll waste. Haji's telling the truth.  _Niklas was with Diva's_   _Chevalier_!"

Joel's grips the edges of the desk. But he does not answer. Seconds tick by. Saya fights the urge to grab his shoulders and shake him. Doesn't he realize the more time they waste arguing, the more likely it is that Diva could gain another ally?

Then, after a moment, Joel opens his eyes. Turning to Haji, he says, "If… what you are telling me is true, there is… something I must know."

Haji inclines his head.

"That man you claim Niklas was with. That… Chevalier? Did you hear everything he and Niklas discussed?"

Haji nods.

"Then I must confirm something the detective told me. Did he have… some sort of petname for Niklas? An—endearment?"

Haji nods. "He called him  _Nikki_."

The corners of Joel's mouth tighten, as if Haji's answer is acid splashed across his face.

Frowning, Saya glances from him to her Chevalier. "Why is this so important?"

Haji shrugs, as unsure as she. Joel merely swallows. For a moment, she is sure he will not answer.

But eventually, he speaks. "Nikki... is what Niklas' father used to call him. His  _real_ father—my late brother, Jacques. It was a nickname. Any other boy would have hated it; it was so despicably girlish. But Niklas didn't mind. It was a little joke between him and Jacques. They were very close. Closer than I could ever hope to be."

Saya exchanges looks with Haji. She isn't sure why this is relevant. But she also has a premonition that Joel is building up to something. Some justification—or excuse—for why Niklas has sided with the enemy now.

"After Jacques' death, I married Niklas' mother," Joel continues. "Niklas was twelve at the time. He took his father's death very hard. I tried, in my own fashion, to fill in Jacques' place for him. But from the day I arrived, Niklas resented me. In his eyes, I was an invader. Someone who had usurped his father's place. Stolen his mother away. As for myself..."

He exhales. Saya and Haji are staring at him. But he avoids their eyes, speaking as if to himself. "I tried to build a relationship with the boy. But I was not his father, and he never let me forget it. Jacques was very permissive with Niklas. Lax, even. I felt he'd spoiled him. The boy was raised with no boundaries. He ate when he wanted. Slept when he wanted. And he had all these...  _effeminate_ habits. He hated sports. Liked to sit with his nose pressed into rubbish books. I tried to infuse discipline in his life. Force him to play outdoors more. Rebuke him for acting … like a  _milquetoast_. Doubtless, many would say I was too strict. Niklas' mother, for one, accused me of trying to change the boy's nature.  _This is the way he is_ , she would say.  _If you force him to be someone different, he will only grow up hating himself._  I always countered that the boy was too young to know what was good for him. Besides, I wanted him to grow up as a finer man. Someone Jacques would be proud of."

Wearily, he shakes his head. "Except Niklas' mother was right. My efforts only made the boy resent me. As a teenager, he was  _insufferable_. He would waste no opportunity to act out. Call me names. Smash things. I would try to hold my temper. But ultimately, it always got the better of me. We were at each others throats so often that Niklas' mother resolved boarding schools were the only answer. Except… I believe that's where the boy really worsened. By the time he was in university, I kept hearing… rumors. About how out of control he was getting. How…  _deviant_ his lifestyle was. I summoned him to New York, so I could keep an eye on him. Find some way to turn him around. But I never realized…"

"How far gone he actually was," Saya murmurs.

Joel sighs, but does not answer. He seems not to have heard her.

"All this time, I thought Niklas was just… confused," he says. "I thought he needed firmness. But I never imagined…" Trailing off, he shakes his head.

Saya exchanges looks with Haji. Against all odds, they have managed to open Joel's eyes to the truth. What they need next is plan of action.

"We have to keep this from getting out of hand," she tells Joel. "Niklas could reveal important secrets about Red Shield to Diva. You should order operatives to stay on the lookout. If Niklas  _does_ become a Chevalier, we can't—"

She breaks off. Joel sits hunched at his desk, giving no sign that he is even taking in what she is saying.

Impatient, Saya steps closer. "Are you  _hearing_ what I'm telling you? Because if your son joins the enemy—"

Haji's hand on her shoulder cuts her short. Bewildered, she glances up at him. Realizes, from his cautionary look, that he is trying to tell her something. Then the stench of tears hits her. Frowning, she glances back at Joel. He sits motionless, head in hands, as if he has forgotten Haji or she are even in the room.

Then, with a cringe, she understands.

"M-monsieur," she says awkwardly. "Please. Control yourself."

No answer. Exchanging uncomfortable looks, Saya and Haji exit the room.

Behind them, Joel makes no sound. But his trembling shoulders tell the whole story.

* * *

Green neon streams from the tall slanted windows.

Silhouetted by the glow, Solomon faces the dressing-table mirror. Neatly buttoning up his suit jacket, he shoots his cuffs, and smoothes back his ruffled hair. He doesn't need to switch on the lamp to see what he is doing. Or to see the gleam of Niklas' eyes from the bed, the mesmerized way he watches him.

"Do you have to leave so soon?"

Solomon nods. "I have duties to Brother Amshel, Nikki. I cannot stay too long."

Niklas eyes slip shut. He lies nude and tousled under the sheets, his hair sticking up in all directions. "I know. I  _know_. Sometimes... I just feel like times passes too quickly when I'm with you. Like right now. I looked at my watch, and realized it's been three hours. But to me, it feels like  _less_."

"Be patient, Niklas. Soon, you will have nothing  _but_ time on your hands."

Niklas swallows. "I keep telling myself that. I keep assuring myself this will end soon. B-But I can't wait much longer, Solomon. My stepfather is already considering shifting my responsibilities. He says I'm hopelessly inept at deskwork. I may be put in charge of a different position. In a different  _country_. Then it will be even harder for me to help you."

 _Or_ see  _you._

Solomon hears the last words clearly. His eyes narrow, the gears in his head turning. He's already heard of Niklas' prospective transfer. But that does not panic him. Partly because he realizes Niklas is far more fearful by the idea than  _he_.

All he has to do is prey on that fear.

Knotting his tie, he turns to face Niklas, "Ah. No wonder you've been so tense tonight. Poor boy."

Niklas hunches over, raking both hands through his damp hair. "Solomon, please. I'm begging you. I've done everything I could to aid Diva's cause. Why can't you convince Amshel to accept me as a Chevalier?"

Solomon sighs. "Niklas, you overestimate my power. I can only make suggestions to Brother Amshel. But the ultimate choice is  _his_. I've never been able to tell what he's planning."

Niklas looks sulky. "Yet you still drop everything to run to him, whenever he orders?"

"I have to. That is my duty."

" _Duty_." Niklas sighs the word out. "That one thing I can't endure anymore. But you can erase all that for me, Solomon. When I'm Diva's Chevalier, you can make me into someone brand new. Someone who is all  _yours_."

Solomon smiles. Here is a chance to steer this conversation where he wants. "It is a tempting idea, Niklas. But technically, you would be  _Diva's_ first. By blood and right. And you would have duties to her, too." He pauses. "Could you accept that?"

Niklas hesitates. "I-I don't know. I think so."

Solomon makes his gaze sad. "That is not good enough, Nikki. I understand that you cannot be kept in suspense forever. But before Brother Amshel accepts you as a Chevalier, you have to prove yourself. Prove that you not only support our cause—but are willing to give  _everything_ for it. Could you do that?"

"I—" Niklas' eyes widen, and Solomon knows he has him.

Feigning regret, he picks up his wristwatch from the dresser. Slips it on, and turns to go. "If that's your answer, Niklas, then I am disappointed. I hoped you would be more dedicated than that."

"Wh-what?"

"If you cannot make your choice now, tonight, then neither can Amshel. We need someone ready to die for our cause. Someone  _worthy_ of being Diva's Chevalier."

With that, Solomon reaches for the doorknob.

" _Wait_!"

Niklas lurches from bed, cutting Solomon off and thrusting him back against the wall. They are within an inch of height.

"Solomon— _don't_! You know that isn't true. I have done everything to aid your side.  _Everything_."

"I know you have, Niklas. But Brother Amshel does not agree with me. And  _he_ is the one who will decide your future."

Niklas' eyes squeeze shut, mouth quivering. He drops his forehead to Solomon's neck, his breath making a moist ragged patch there. "Dammit.  _Dammit_. There has to be  _something_ I can do to convince him!"

It is exactly the opening Solomon needs.

He takes Niklas' shoulders. "Hush, Nikki. Pull yourself together. I promise you, I will think of something. Didn't I swear to take care of you?"

Niklas nods. But instead of drawing back, he drops to his knees at Solomon's feet. "I just wish all this waiting would end," he rasps. "I don't know what's worse. The idea of never being with you. Or of always sneaking out to see you. Sharing you with your  _real_ family. The one I can never be a part of."

Solomon puts a hand into Niklas' thick hair. "You  _will_ be a part of them, Niklas. Keep faith."

"But it's not just that. There must be something missing in  _your_ life too."

The words strike an eerie echo. Solomon freezes. "What do you mean?"

Niklas lays his face against Solomon's thigh. Hands on his hips, tight and pleading.

"I-I don't mean to be insolent, Solomon. But you have everything a person could dream of. Wealth. Immortality. A powerful family. But you're always skulking in alleyways with me. Ready to sympathize with all my failings and neediness. Why? There must be a good reason. Are you  _really_  happy with Diva? Or are you just with me because you have no alternatives? Because inside, you're as lonely as  _I_  am?"

Solomon does not answer. For a moment, he fantasizes what a satisfying  _crack_ Niklas' neck would make if he snapped it. Just as quickly, his anger fades. Replaced by something darker. Something  _worse_.

Despair.

Niklas is right.

From the start, Solomon has thought of this affair as one-sided. Tactful manipulation for the good of business. But a part of him enjoys the pin-dot adoration in Niklas' eyes. Enjoys it, yet still feels isolated. Because, even in this human's company, inundated with passion and sex and worship, Solomon is still so lonely that he wants to scream.

He thinks of Diva. For all his loyalty, he knows nothing about her. Never will. James annoys him, and Nathan disturbs him. Brother Amshel confuses and intimidates him. Karl, despite his moodiness, he secretly admires—but that is the extent of it. He does not love any of them. It is only the thought of belonging to a family—a blood-bond—that keeps them together.

He looks down at Niklas. Flawed, devoted Niklas. Half-blinded by love and self-loathing; teetering toward extinction. For a moment, he wants to tell Niklas that he is being foolish. Tell him not to hold his life so cheap, because Solomon's own existence is nothing to aspire to.

But before he can speak, Niklas raises his head. Tears shining in both eyes.

"My God. It's true…isn't it?"

"Niklas—"

"You don't have to remain with Diva, if you are unhappy, Solomon," Niklas says. "Forget about her—she can't possibly care for you the way I do. If she did, she would want you by her side every  _moment_. Just like  _me_. Please—let's start over together. Just the two of us. Someplace where we can be  _free_."

Solomon shuts his eyes. The pain in Niklas' voice is hypnotic. A voice rises inside him—tantalizing, mournful, a musical-note sprung up  _a bene placito._  Why not? Here is a man who can relate with him as much as anyone ever can. Who wants to remain with him forever. Wants to be part of his present and future. What if he  _does_ convince Diva to turn him into a Chevalier? What if they both flee together somewhere, start their lives over?

No more loneliness. No more biding eternity with nothing to look forward to. He'll have a companion, if nothing else.

In the next heartbeat, Solomon nearly laughs.

_God._

_I must be crazier than_ Diva _._

Turning Niklas into a Chevalier won't ease his loneliness. Hadn't he let Diva turn  _Karl_ for the same reason? Except it had only left him with someone as broken as he was. To do that same with  _Niklas_ would just repeat the mistake.

_Nothing Diva touches stays whole. She's broken inside—and she breaks everyone around her. I realize that now._

_If I want to be free, I have to leave her_ completely _._

But it is still too soon. Solomon can fantasize about it. But he cannot carry it out. Because a part of him  _still_  wants to believe in Diva. Still wants to imagine a bright future with her—free of lies and jealousy. She may not be much of a Queen—but she is still  _his_  Queen. Still family.

He cannot give that up.

 _Yet_.

Besides. Right now, he has  _duties_  to fulfill.

"Niklas." Gracefully, Solomon kneels before him, so their knees almost touch. "Do not talk that way. I am not with you because I cannot find alternatives."  _If I_ were _, you would never even make my list._ "I am with you because I care for your welfare. Because I want to  _help_ you. There is no need to run yourself down."

Niklas squeezes his moist eyes shut. "Then why can't Amshel accept me as a Chevalier? Why can't I  _be_ with you, the way we both want?"

"Hush." Solomon strokes Niklas' hair. "I will think of something. Do not worry. In the past, every Chevalier had to  _prove_  his loyalty to Brother Amshel. It was a ritual."

"Like how?" Niklas' eyes open, gleaming with hope.

Solomon pretends to be thinking out loud. "I'm not sure. Something concrete. Which declares, to the all sides, that you are  _Diva's_." It is the farthest thing from the truth. Amshel always prefers underhanded dealings to open declarations. But Niklas does not know that.

"Please, Solomon," he whispers. "I'll do  _anything_. You know that."

Solomon develops his scheme. "In that case, there might be something you could do. Something like—" He shakes his head, as if dismissing the idea. "No. I couldn't ask you that. It is too dangerous."

"What?  _Tell me_."

He has taken the bait. Now Solomon has to reel him in.

"Well," he hesitates, then meets Niklas' eyes. "You could send Red Shield's entire lode of supplies to Vietnam, couldn't you?  _All_  of it, as soon as possible. It would treblethe Chiropterans in the area. Add to the chaos. Leading America to terminate their alliance with Red Shield  _permanently_. Could you do that?"

Niklas looks worried. "I-I think so."

Solomon's gaze hardens. "Not good enough, Niklas.  _Yes_ , or  _No_. Can you do it?"

"I—" Niklas' expression wavers. He swallows, looking away. Solomon realizes he is still undecided.

Time to play his last card.

Gently, he takes Niklas' face in both hands. Leans in so their lips are inches apart. He can feel Niklas' pulse quickening under his fingertips. Can feel his breathing shift, his excitement burgeoning in the air around them. But his eyes remain on Solomon's. Entranced.

"The time for games is over, Niklas," Solomon says. "I need your answer tonight. _Yes_ , or  _No_."

Niklas' eyes close. He makes no sound.

"Niklas? Tell me."

There is a constricting silence. Then, at last, Niklas speaks.

"Yes." Opening his eyes, he looks at Solomon. All vestiges of restraint—reason—gone. "Yes. I'll do it."

* * *

 


	30. Tempo Rubato

* * *

**Tempo rubato:**  stolen time.

* * *

Her world is a starburst of blood.

Snatches of Diva's song fill her ears. Flames color her vision. The scenery is surreal. Palm-trees and signal flares. Soldiers crouched in shadows. Blazing gunfire. While Saya races through the fugue, sword swinging. Man, woman, child. Her blade knows no distinction. A trail of broken limbs litters her path.

Death a red orchestra—and she the conductress.

Ferocious.

_Free._

The carnage envelops her. The jangle of screams, the gleam of terrified eyes, the stink of death. Too much sound, too much light, too much odor. A sensory outrush that overloads her mind.

_Where am I?_

_What am I doing?_

There is no sequence. One moment, she is butchering humans left and right, bloodsprays flying. Next, she stands on a grandiose opera stage. Spotlights flash across her blade as she swings at a tall black-suited man.

He howls, red fluid splattering. His arm tumbles off like a reptile's tail. In the glow, his fingers are demonic talons. Then she realizes it is  _Haji_  kneeling before her, gripping the bleeding stump of his right arm.

 _Saya_. His voice is clogged with grief.  _Don't you recognize me?_

She can only stare, flames erupting around her. Then she hears an explosion—feels the huge shockwave rock her bones—just as the cantilevered ceiling  _swoops_  down.

Crushing Haji alive.

 _No!_  she screams—

—right before a cocoon opens beneath. Gulping her whole.

It is an omen that kills parts of her, still untouched by duty.

An omen that warns her: duty isn't all that kills you inside.

* * *

Saya jolts awake mid-scream. " _Haji_!"

In a blink, he is at her side, hands on her shoulders. "Saya—it's all right."

" _Haji—I'm so sorry_!"

"Saya, it was a dream. Calm down."

_A dream. Just a dream._

Hysteria throbs in her veins. The bedroom is dark. The fire has nearly gone out, just a glowing stripe of red embers. In the faded glow, Haji leans over her, coat off, barefoot. Droplets of water roll down from his sodden hair, off his pale skin, as if he has just gotten out of the bath.

But he doesn't seem as real as in her dream. Torn to pieces.

Frantic, she scrambles upright. "I-I can't do this! I can't sleep!"

"You can stay awake if you wish, Saya. Would you like some coffee?"

"No—y-you don't understand. I  _can't_  go into my Long Sleep!  _Something's going to happen_!"

"What?" Haji flicks the table-lamp on. She flinches in the sudden brightness. The penthouse they are in—one of Red Shield's properties—is large and well-furnished. After that Chevalier broke into the last safe-house, Joel moved them to a more secure location.

In the lamplight, Haji's skin glows, more ethereal than wan. "Saya—what's the matter?"

She swallows. "I-I had a nightmare. Something's going to happen during my Long Sleep."

"It was only a dream."

"It felt  _real_!" Worse than real. A foresight of the future.

"It was not, Saya. Heeding such things is not our way."

He is right. The years have made her and Haji practical to the core. Superstition is only a weakness in battle. But the supernatural link between them also impels them to respect… premonitions. Gut-feelings about an ally's true intentions, or an enemy's nearness.

More than once, these premonitions have saved their lives.

Uncertain, Haji kneels before her. "What did you dream of?"

Hands shaking, she pushes the tangles from her face. "I-I dreamt I was in a battle. Killing all these people. Human, Chiropteran, I didn't care. I slashed and slashed." Her gorge rises. "B-but the last part was the worst. When I swung my sword at  _you_. Y-you screamed, asked why I didn't recognize you. Then something gave way—a roof, or a stage—I-I can't remember. It buried you completely."

Confessing the senseless dream should exorcise her fear. Instead her trembling worsens. She wraps her arms around herself, wringing warmth from her clammy limbs.

"Saya—you are only worried about tomorrow. It is stress."

"N-No! Don't you  _see_! I  _can't_  go into my Long Sleep. Otherwise—something awful will happen!" Panic congeals her blood. "W-we need to find Diva  _now_! Or else—"

"Saya—"

Her words override his. "We'll head out from the roof access. Just the two of us. Red Shield needn't know. We'll find Diva by her scent. Break into where she's staying and—"

" _Saya_." Haji's discordant voice jolts her.

"Wh-what is it?"

"Saya. Please. Listen to what you are saying."

She blinks.

"You sound… insane. We cannot find Diva in a single night. Not in a city this big. And we cannot break into her hiding place. She has Chevaliers protecting her. And an immense network of human spies. Taking her down unaided is impossible."

When the words leave his lips, reality sinks in. Her plan sounds ludicrous. The ravings of a madwoman.

"Ha-Haji…"

"Please, Saya. You cannot give in to pressure this way. Otherwise you will snap. We  _will_  defeat Diva. But when the opportunity presents itself. Until then, we must wait."

She licks her dry lips, as if absorbing his words from the air. Her heart still pounds on double-time. "Haji. I'm sorry. I d-don't know what's wrong with me. I—"

"Shh. It's all right." He drapes the fallen blanket around her shoulders. Before he can withdraw, her hand snatches his. His skin is radiant on hers. He must have fed off blood earlier.

Déjà vu flares. Ashamed, she relives what they did in a different room, a different bed. So far she's been handling the memory the only way she can.  _Repress. Deny_. And Haji, sensing the night mustn't be re-mentioned, has also retreated—a cool reserve disguised as courtesy. As if theirs was an illicit one-night-stand.

_It's all it can be._

Flushing, she drops his hand. "Wh-what time is it?"

"A quarter past two. Still early enough for you to rest."

"I-I can't sleep now." Not with the stench of murder still in her nostrils, and thoughts of tomorrow feeding icy fissions down her spine. She can't imagine  _ever_  sleeping again. "W-we have such an important task ahead. But… each time I think about it, I'm afraid something will go wrong. Which is pointless, because I have no proof. But something inside me keeps saying it's not the right time. I-I can't explain it."

"There is no sense in worrying about it until then, Saya. You will strain yourself unnecessarily."

As always, his quiet voice drains all her tension out. Keeps her focused on the  _Now_. She wants to crawl inside him,  _be_  him. Maybe things are clearer through his eyes?

"Haji?" she whispers.

"What is it?"

"Remember—what you used to say at the Zoo? How you wanted to repay Joel for taking you in?"

"Hm."

She swallows thickly. "I-I really think you've repaid that debt. A hundred times over. Not just to Joel. You've done so much for me too. Despite everything I've done. I'm so sorry for—"

Haji's hand moves to her cheek—only to jerk away, the instinctual urge to comfort checked by caution. "Saya, we have already discussed this. You have no reason to blame yoursel—"

"—It doesn't excuse what I've done. All the deaths Diva has caused are on me. But hopefully tomorrow, it will end once and for all."

Misgiving darkens Haji's eyes. But they remain on hers. "I will stay by your side until you have fulfilled your duty."

"I know. But, if anything happens out there—if I can't fight off my Long Sleep—promise you'll carry on the fight? I know it's hard enough for you. To be stuck in a battle that was never your fault—"

"Saya, that is not true. Whatever Joel's mistakes in the past, his death affected me as much as you. We are in this war for the same reasons."

"I know. But—remember what you said about Berlin? How you sought out that woman because you lost focus?" She fights off a shameful stab of jealousy. "That… only happened because you wanted an escape, didn't you? From the war, and this promise I forced you to make? You only wanted to rest."

Haji's unfocused stare reveals that she's hit the truth. The silence transmits his shame.

"Haji? I'm right, aren't I?"

His eyes slip shut. "I am sorry for my recklessness, Saya. I-I never meant to—"

"I'm not asking for tit-for-tat apologies. I just meant… I understand how it feels to be in that position. To feel trapped in your life. Which isn't a life at all. Nothing should live as long as we Chiropterans do." Corrosive tears prick her eyes. She squeezes them shut. "But… that's exactly why we have to finish this war. To avenge everyone who died because of our blood."

"But what will killing yourself avenge?"

The question slices through her—a rusty knife on skin. She stiffens. "Don't say that! You  _know_  why I have to do this!  _I have no other choice_!"

He doesn't meet her glare. "There are always choices, Saya."

" _Not for people like_ _us._ " Fists clenched, she forces the anger down. Her old impulse, to check him with violence, will not do. "Haji, you  _know_  these reasons as well as I do. I already have enough enemies to fight. I can't fight them and you too. Be my friend. You're all I have left."

"I would be a poor sort of friend, to let you throw your life away."

"Haji— _please_."

For a moment the only sound is her strained breathing, and his. Then, Haji releases the breath he seems to be holding. His voice is dull. Eyes fixed so steadily to the floor that he seems to be hanging his head. "I have always done as you wish, Saya. It will not change, tomorrow or tonight."

It is less a reassurance than a reproach. But the pledge is in his voice. He will not capitulate now.

"Thank you," she whispers. The ineptness of this strikes back at her, making her cringe. Anyone can say those words. They have nothing to do with their grotesque lives, or the promise between them.

Nothing to do with what she  _should_  say.

Haji rises to his full height, refusing to engage her eyes. "You should rest."

"I-I'm not sleepy."

"Regardless. There is a difficult task ahead."

_For both of us._

The silence spells it clearly. Her eyes burn; regret a choking bolus in her throat. In the mirror ahead—narrow and oval, unlike the one at the last safe-house—she sees her own huddled reflection. Has a flash of memory, when she was spread sideways in a different bed, Haji curled behind her in a cool swathe. Coaxing her climax out of her while she watched, transfixed by their reflections.

Right then, cradled in his arms, she'd looked like someone she couldn't recognize. Someone who  _might have been_ —if the war hadn't destroyed her. And in unleashing that side of herself, she'd bruised Haji more than all the previous bruises combined.

She winces.  _What more did you expect?_

Solace has no place alongside duty. She has no right to ask him for it, because it will muddle up her feelings. Make her see hope where there  _is_  none. Then she will fail and everyone will die—Diva will  _triumph._ All because she gave in to self-indulgence instead of staying strong.

But that doesn't stop her from wanting to.

She wants to recapture the warm lines Haji and she spun together—an oeuvre played  _tempo rubato_. Relive that moment when she stopped being a monster, and the world her field of carnage—but a perfected puzzle, and she the perfect fit in it.

It is a hopeless delusion _._ Except that only makes her want it  _more_.

"What's the matter, Saya? You're shaking again."

"I-It's nothing. Please don't worry about me."

"You should sleep. If you stay up worrying, you will exhaust yourself."

"I can never sleep before a battle. You know that."

He nods, solicitous. "Would you prefer to train instead? We can go up to the roof for more space."

"No."

"What then? Shall I play something for you on the cello?"

She shakes her head. Pride shrivels up her stomach, morphing into a stern voice that whispers:  _Let it go_. He is right. She should be sleeping—not dabbling in selfish longings. But another voice—born from the yawning wildness at her core—intrudes:  _This_ _might be the last time._

The last time to make things up with him. The last time to correct even a  _fraction_  of the wrongs between them.

Drawing a breath, she rises from the bed. Closes the gap between Haji and herself as if crossing a rickety bridge. The tips of her bare feet brush his as she goes up on tiptoe. Fingers slipping into his waistband, under his shirt, tugging it undone to feel the shock of warm skin beneath.

" _Saya_." Haji jerks as if pinched. His fingers snatch hers, popping them free. "Wh-what are you doing?"

"I—" She flushes all over. "I just wanted to hold you."

" 'Hold' me?" His uneasy look says,  _What part, precisely?_

Her blush darkens. But she keeps her gaze on his. "I wish—you'd let me kiss you."

"Saya—" He exudes chagrin. "Please do not do this again."

"Why?"

"We have played this scene out before."

Rebuffed, she jerks back. "W-was yesterday enough for you?"

" _No_." His eyes flash. "That is  _not_ the case at all. Y-You cannot know how much I—" He takes a breath, falling silent. Gently presses her hands back to her. His clipped tone is almost a parody to correctness. "That first time, you were distraught, Saya. This is no different."

"Th-that's not true! I admit—when I first asked, I-I needed a distraction. I wanted to feel like I wasn't a monster. But I wanted you too. You  _know_  that!"

His eyes drop. She thinks she sees him blush. "You still... regretted it afterward."

"I  _regretted_ depriving you of a normal life. Not—what  _we_  did. I know it was wrong of me—to feel good after everything I've done. B-but I did. In spite of all this bloodshed… you made me feel good." Her face feels on fire. She's no longer sure what she wants to say. Only sure she needs to tell him how  _sorry_ she is.

Then Haji brings his hand up, thumb lightly tracing her chin. His blue gaze is pained. "What we did—was not your fault, Saya. It was mine. There were—other ways I could have comforted you. But I did not care. I only wanted what I wanted."

"W-What?" Her mouth falls open. "H-How can you _say_ that?  _I'm_ the one who started it! I  _pulled_ you into bed with me! Y-You didn't force me to—"

He looks away. "I am not sorry for what we did. But you had…regrets when it was over. There is no reason for a repetition of that."

" _No reason_ —?" Her hands twitch. She fights the urge to shake him. In a rush of insight, she realizes he is not being intentionally distant. He simply has trouble imagining that she might want him—not for distraction—but for  _himself_.

This jars her. She has been taking him for granted, misunderstanding everything about him, ever since they were young. But now, the thought of being unable to convey her change of heart, realizing his worth right when he can no longer make himself believe it, is  _unbearable._

"Haji, I-I know I haven't been kind to you," she stammers. "I've been thoughtless, and—sadistic, and even if you say it doesn't matter anymore, it  _does_. It does to me." In the past she'd never have admitted such a thing. But self-defense seems beside the point now. She wants to reach him however possible. "I just—want you to know that I'm sorry. I'm not asking for your forgiveness—but I hope you can accept my apology. I-I'd like to show you."

Haji stiffens, stepping back. "You—need not do this out of pity, Saya. That first time, you were not yourself. That is the only reason you allowed me to touch you. But it's over now. There is no reason to take the sting out with sugarcoating."

" _Sugarcoating?_ Haji—that's  _not_  what I—"

He shakes his head. "It does not matter. You already know I will fight in this war for you. There is no need to offer… incentives. Men, as a rule, may not be faithful. But trained dogs are. And we require no treats to fulfill our duties."

"Haji—!"

No answer. As if to spare them further embarrassment, he quits the room. Dazed, Saya lets him go. Wondering why she can't make herself call him back—gather him in to kiss her. Kisses that ask no questions, that make unconditional promises. Wanting that, not understanding why he'd refuse.

_Goad me out of pity._

She shakes her head. How can he think that?

Confusion mutates into a rage as white-hot as acid. Suddenly, she is  _livid_. How  _dare_ he? She overlooked his sordid affair in Berlin. Half-intended to  _let him go_ , so he'd have a better future. And still, he has the nerve to write off her feelings as  _pity?_

Without realizing it, she storms from the room. " _Haji!_ "

Outside is twinkling gloom. The living-room is dark, illuminated by the tall window. The glittering buildings give off an incandescent glow. Haji leans by the corner, watching the cityscape. The ambiance dyes his skin into all the colors of the city itself: red, purple, orange, blue.

Startled, he wheels to face her. "Saya—"

She snarls it before she can stop herself. " _I can't believe you're refusing me_!"

The words strike him like pellets. He jerks back. "Please—W-We both know that is not what it is abou—"

"Then what  _is_ it about?" Her shrill voice echoes off the walls. Teeth clenched, she forces it down. "Haji—this  _isn't_ about pity. You have to believe that. I-I only want-"  _To show you how I feel._ She tries to say it, but her throat clots. Whispers instead, "This might be the only time we have to ourselves. I-I don't want us to spend it being angry with each other. We have no idea what might happen tomorrow. That's why—I need to make things right between us _._ Haji _—_ I-I need you to forgive me."

" 'Forgive'?" He stares at her. "Saya—you have done nothing wrong. You do not—"

"But then  _why_  are you treating me this way?" Her towering anger—all the things she wanted to scream at him—melt into agony. Her voice cracks. "It must be because you're angry with me. Y-You must have some resentments you're not ready to admit. Because of everything I've done to you."

He remains by the window—a silhouette. But his tone is gentle. "Saya, I told you. That is not what this is about."

"What then?"

Wincing, he turns away. "It is not like you to—make invitations such as these. But just the fact that you are begs the question..."

"What question?"

His face, coldly sculpted as if from marble, melts to uncertainty. The expression makes him seem improbably young. "Saya—perhaps we both might feel less terrible if you just said it. Why are you really doing this? You say it is not out of pity. But then what? Do you suspect I will stray from the Mission, like I did in Berlin? Are you trying to exact some sort of promise, so that I will do my duty later?"

Stricken, she steps back. Part of her wants to take offense at this. But she knows, to him, her offer must seem selfish as the first time. An opportunity to use him like a  _godemiché_. To bind him to her in a visceral leash.

"It's not so simple," she whispers. "It's just—I've never been good to you. Despite everything you've done for me. I know it seems like I'm asking you to bed as repayment. But that's not true, either. I'd just—like for you to think of me as someone who didn't make you suffer. That's all."

"That is not how I ever think of you, Saya."

"You say that now. But if we fail tomorrow—if I go into my Long Sleep—you'll have to devote yourself to the Mission for my sake. Out of duty—not because  _you_ want to. How can I ask you to do that, without at least trying to show you...that I appreciate it?"

He shakes his head. "So you think I am fighting the war out of obligation? My own incentive to stop Diva counts for naught?"

"I-I don't know. I don't mean to sound presumptuous. But the fact is—we really don't know each other anymore. Not like we did when we were young." She sighs. "We've changed with the war. Everyone else thinks we're some invincible team. But underneath... we're not the same people anymore. Are we, Haji?"

He shuts his eyes. "Yes. And no."

"What do you mean?"

He sounds tentative. "It is true that the war has changed us. But in many ways, we still are the same people. At least...whatever else that has happened, I know I am. I still want the same things."

"What things?"

He meets her eyes then. "For you to be happy. And to  _live_."

This may as well be a pike through the skull. Her eyes sting with backed-up tears. "…If that's true, then I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Because while Diva's alive, I can never be happy. And I can only live to make sure she's dead." She lifts her head then. Lets him see the misery in her brimming eyes. "But Haji, before that happens, I'd like to make things up with you. I-I'm not asking you to spend the night with me out of pity. I'm asking because I think we'd both be better for it. But—it's still upto you to refuse."

The words hang in the air, even as her body plunges. Haji makes no answer. Only stares at her as the moments snowball, gathering into a silence so thick it suffocates. She has no idea what he is thinking.

_Oh God._

This was wrong of her, wasn't it? Wrong to barge in here, stir up feelings he'd rather forget. The longer he stays silent, the clearer it is that he does not want to touch her. Yesterday  _was_  enough.

"Haji—" Her voice shakes. "I-I'm sorry. Forget what I said. I should go—"

She isn't prepared for how he flashes through the semidarkness. Suddenly he is right against her, the span of his shoulders in her hands, the length of him pressing in, needy and half-starved. She breathes  _I'm sorry_ even as tears spill, shaking through her body, choking her. His lips dot across her face, a thirsty connoisseurship, before connecting to her mouth. The kiss is supercharged as champagne.

 _Yes_.

Shuddering, she goes on tiptoe, hands curling tight into his shoulders. Feeds on his delicious kisses, gulp upon gulp, a liquid sensation suffusing her. She whimpers, and Haji makes a sound both wounded and worshipful. As if, for him, this freefall into pleasure can only bring pain.

Dragging his mouth away, he whispers, "Saya—thirty years of suffering for you, or one night  _with_  you will make no difference. I am in this war for  _you_. I always will be."

"I-I know—I just—" she bites back a sob. "I don't want you to hate me for everything I've done. I-I know this isn't enough to make up for it. But it's real. I  _swear_."

"Sssh." All at once she is back against the wall, his fingers threaded in her hair, opening her to his hot mouth and coppery kisses. He exudes heat. Sighs as her own hands slip under his shirt, greedy palms coasting across his skin. She feels her whole body absorbing his warmth. Hoping  _he_  will absorb, somehow, the reams of things she cannot say.

"Please," she gasps, as their lips break. "I need this, Haji. I need it so much."

"You need this…?" His hand is under her nightshirt. Skimming up her body: thighs, belly, breasts. She is already so het up. The touch makes her shiver.

" _You_. I need you." So many words swamping her. Yet all she can manage is this pathetic banality—and pray he will understand.

Haji hesitates a moment, her head caught in one hand. She senses that he wants to tell her something. Then his eyes go soft and dark, and he dips to catch her mouth again, the gap between speech and action blending into one thing, no words, just kissing. Shivering all over, she circles him closer. Dizzied by the pitch of hunger he resonates; at how he tastes her mouth over and over as if starving for her. But over lightheaded lust, misgiving intrudes:

_Was he this way with that girl from Red Shield?_

The idea makes her sick. But she cannot discard it. She has to know.

"Ha-Haji...?"

"Hmm." He is scattering kisses across her face, her jaw, her neck. She shudders, stilling him. "Haji—did you—?"

"What?" His dark hair tumbles over one eye. Tentatively, she smoothes it back. He kisses her palm, the tips of her fingers, and her resolve nearly crumbles.

"Haji. Did you ever ...think about me? During my Long Sleep?"

"What? Saya, of course I—"

"N-No. I meant—" Her voice wobbles. "Did you ever think about—what we're doing right now? When—you were alone?"

His eyes widen, then darken. Slowly, he nods.

Heat suffuses her, like a wave cresting. Nervously, she lifts her eyes to his. "D-Did you ever think about me, when you were...with her?"

His eyes close. She hears him swallow.

"Haji?"

No answer. He seems ready to pull away.

Guilty, she stammers, "I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. You don't have to tell me if—"

"It is not that."

"What?" A tiny flare of hope. "Did you...?"

Defeated, he nods.

She can see what the admission costs him. A smile tugs at her lips, proud and bittersweet and shamefully out-of-place. And she realizes: this is what Haji couldn't bring himself to tell her. Not the fact that he'd strayed.  _Why_  he'd done it. To have something three-dimensional with someone.

No—not someone.

 _Me_.

The last of her anger fades. Whatever she understands—or doesn't—about his mistake, it doesn't matter. It has nothing to do with what she and Haji have here. Because—strange that she'd never realized it—what they have here is what he  _wanted_.

As if echoing her thoughts, Haji whispers, "Saya—it is not the right time—but I need to tell you. What I did during your Long Sleep—will not happen again. It does not matter if I cannot have you with me everyday. I still—"

He would say more. But she pulls his head down, burying the words inside her mouth. Suddenly, she wants to tell him, what he means to her. But all the words flitting through her head sound like echoes of poems. Perhaps even poetry makes sense with someone you care about. Instead, her hands work clumsily between them. Fumble for the top button at his waist. But his fingers close gently on her wrists. He pins them to the wall beside her head, reverent as  _kris_  daggers.

Slow and wet, he breaks the kiss. The city lights turn his eyelashes into shadowy crowns above his eyes. "Not yet."

"Wh-what?"

A kiss: soft as rain. "You asked if I thought of you during your Sleep." He smiles, lips feathering over hers. "Wouldn't you rather I show you?"

The subterranean purr makes her bones hum. She feels, in the dreamlike comb of his fingers through her hair, his need to  _experience_  her.

He lifts her then. Carries her the few steps to the adjacent marble mantelpiece, setting her there as if she is an idol to be worshipped. Beyond them, the city shimmers—a sleepless witness.

But gradually, she realizes this is her first time to experience  _Haji_  too. To feel the warm pads of his fingers glide across her skin as he sweeps her nightshirt off. To feel the gooseflesh pebble her body, overlaid by his warm palms. She sighs as he tongues a hot wet stripe down her throat, long hair dragging ticklishly after his lips. Nuzzles the hollow above her collarbone, swallowing her breasts in both hands. He presses them softly together; lovingly mouthing each nipple until she stirs with shy needful mewls.

"Haji…"

"Shhh." Pressing kisses down her belly, rubbing his cheek against the smooth flexing skin, Haji melts lower. His eyes—eerie how blue eyes can be so heated—meet hers. "I am not going anywhere, Saya."

An assurance. Or a promise?

She is quivering, even before his hands ghost along her thighs. Parting them to the wash of cool air and cool-hot eyes. He dots kisses across the sensitive insides. Making her muscles jerk, making her flush. Leaving a trail of moisture down one calf. Moving lower, kissing the arch of each foot in turn. His tongue traces the ultrasensitive skin between her toes, and she gasps, head lolling back. Never a trait she'd have attributed to Haji—or imagined herself enjoying.

But his every touch—slow and surreal as, the first time, it was fevery, frantic—undoes her.

Gently, he lifts her knees over his shoulders. Lets her stare at him past the tips of breasts and plane of belly, stifling images of how she must look. Undefended. Laid-open. Everything this war has taught her  _never_ to be. Then hot breath foreshadows the press of Haji's open mouth. She is already simmering so high that the contact makes her shake. She cries out. But he keeps on.

His touch is so  _soft_. Shirt fabric cool on the backs of her wriggling knees, long curls tickling her thighs. He explores her with hot melting kisses; with deep liquid sweeps of tongue. One hand holding her at the small of her back. The other traveling up and down her body, leaving luminous tracers across her skin.

At first, twisting in his grip like a cat fighting a bath, she has to repress her own squeamishness. But as he bears in closer, hungry instead of teasing, resistance crumbles. Eyes squeezed shut, she sucks her lip up under her teeth to keep from whimpering. Hands scrabbling at the mantle's edges, sometimes flying up to scrub at her face, or jerking down to clutch at his hair.

It feels like terra incognita. Each sensation melting into the next, opening up a wild abyss of hunger inside her. She hears her breath sawing faster, turning into wordless pleading noises as her excitement grows. But Haji keeps it slow. Almost languid. Determined to go at his own pace. Ahead, the cityscape blurs, ceasing to be real. She forgets modesty or control. Forgets everything but the dreamy work of his mouth.

Tomorrow will be Hell. She will wring this moment for everything. No Diva. No duty. No death. Just pure feeling.

Strange, that she can reveal to Haji her most vulnerable self, trust him to kill her—but staying in this life alongside him is terrifying.

_Your worst fear? Or your greatest wish?_

Tears rise. Keening, she twists in his hold. Toes curling; taut knees sliding helplessly wider. The shudder under his lapping tongue begins to radiate all the way to her finger's ends. Frantic, she thrashes, clutching his hair; he holds her down with both hands. And then something is rushing through her, gathering from her edges and from deep inside, rocking her like an avalanche. She is crying out, harsh and irrepressible, heels drumming his back as her spine snaps almost completely off the mantelpiece.

He grips her tightly as she spasms in painful aftershocks. Hums hungrily in his throat so everything  _thrums_ , and she cannot repress the sobbing groan against her clenched teeth. All reality, all restraint, all  _reason_ , drains in a convulsing undertow. She is still vibrating as she slumps back, gasping.

"Oh." Tears track across her cheeks. She hears crying somewhere, and realizes it is coming from her. "Oh God..."

Haji straightens. Nuzzling and biting, licking the salt off her skin, as if devouring a wicked feast. His rubbing thumb continues drawing jerks and shudders from her body, as if she is a marionette.

"Did you like that, Saya?"

"Ye—yes," she whispers, sobbing. "Yes…"

He smiles. In the semi-darkness, his eyes are eerily bright. He seems enthralled by the sight of her. Hypnotized. Then he is stroking back her tangled hair. Kissing her with his slicked mouth. Both of them breathing in sharp gasps, halfway to frantic, as she peels at his clothes like bandages, flushed with shame and wild need.

No more artistry, no conversing or lying down. He sweeps her off the mantel, only to pin her up against the wall. Gasping, she hangs from his shoulders, ankles crossed at his waist. One hand working between them, yanking his belt, undoing the zipper. Mouth buried in her neck, he pushes into her in a slipperyhot slide.

_Oh._

Red spangles behind her vision. Haji shudders on a dark groan. Whole body enveloping her, engorging her. Inside and out. Panting, he presses his forehead to hers, so she sees her reflection in the black of his dilated pupils. "Are you…all right?"

"Mmm." A sob catches in her throat. She can feel how closely they are crowded up together. Skin to Skin, her thighs taut as bows around his waist, the thick length of him filling her up, it seems, all the way to her heart.

She whimpers, eyes squeezed shut. It feels just like the first time. As if he is forcing her in two.

Murmuring soothingly, Haji withdraws the slightest, then presses deeper. Repeats the motion, again and again, until he is tight against the mouth of her womb. The rhythm kindles hot sensation through Saya. She gasps, clutching at him. "Ha-Haji..."

"Sssh." His lips meet hers, a kiss that is both entreaty and question.

Even now, he still seeks her permission.

"Haji...  _Yes_."

She shudders as he begins to grind against her. Fluid and rhythmic. Deliciously slow. She is so oversensitized. Each small movement wrings whimpers from her. All her weight cradled in his widespread hands, the cold wall against her bare back. Both gasping, between kisses, foreheads together and gazes entangled. Never knowing it was possible to feel this way,  _want_  so much, the very edges of reality tearing at the seams.

"This is like—" she manages, and exhales a giggle, pressing her mouth against his neck.

"Like—what?" He kisses her flushed temples, her fluttering eyelids.

"Like—the f-first time I tried to waltz with you. And—tripped over."

He smiles. But his eyes are smoky. "You won't fall this time, Saya. I've got you."

"I-I know. I just meant—oh _. Ohgod_."

The rhythm has quickened. Deep sawing strokes that make her mewl and shudder; make her slide helplessly up and down the wall. Off-balance, she hangs tight to him. Everything is suddenly too much; stirring her into a frenzy beyond control. She has no equilibrium. Biting his jaw, gnawing his neck, she searches blindly for his mouth. And then they are kissing, hard and greedy and breathless, everything unspooling into the hot wet immediacy of friction.

"Haji—more.  _Please_."

His groan reverberates through her whole body. Swinging them both away from the wall, he lurches for the bedroom, but only makes it beyond the window. He lands hard on his knees. Gasping, she hits the rug back-first. He covers her, hot and indolent, rocking. Presses kisses to her hair, her face, cradling her head in both hands. She can feel the intensity of his need for her. Just touching her isn't enough—he seems to be memorizing every aspect of this moment.

A confirmation of the forbidden prize.

Whimpering, she stirs beneath him. Gasps as he tongues his way down her throat, her breasts. He covers them in kisses, tracing their shape in wet curlicues, breathing her in. Every inch of her alights to his touch. Craving him and having him, over and over—each slow in-and-out a gratifying possession, an aching absence. In the glow of the window, his skin is an eerie blue-white, lit on one side, shadowed on the other. His eyes are like ciphers.

She could sink into his regard, his heat, and need nothing else.

"Saya...Saya..." His hands are in her hair then, his gasping mouth fastening to hers. They kiss on unspent moans. She tastes his worship in each sipping kiss. And...something else. Something that fills her with a choking urge to find her sword.

"… Don't," he breathes.

"…Mmm?"

Haji freezes, as if pulled from a trance. All the blue shades in his eyes glow; ambient light reflected in their whites. She feels him trembling. Presaging disaster.

"Please—don't make me keep our promise."

The words fall, lethal, from his lips. And the room all but ignites.

"Ha-Haji—"

"Please Saya—live on. D-don't ask me to—"

" _Ssh_." Her fingers cover his mouth. Gooseflesh races up and down her arms; she can  _hear_  her heart pounding. "Haji—I'm sorry. B-but it's too late to—"

"It  _isn't_." His expression jolts her like nothing in this war ever has. "Saya—you'll find another reason to go on. Y-you could—"

" _Sssh_." She cannot believe how  _wrong_ this has gone. His words are the last she could have predicted. She can see herself—tiny and blurred—reflected in his eyes. Her own face is terrifying. Empty as a doll's. _Dead_.

Nothing left of the old Saya to save.

Throat aching, she guides his mouth to hers. Her refusal steeps the kiss like poison. Haji shudders, biting her lower-lip between blunt teeth, making a strangled noise she's never heard before. For a moment she thinks he is spending. But as he wrenches her in painfully tight, she knows it is an excess of emotion that has shaken him.

Pinned beneath his body, sheathed and helpless, she strokes his whip-tense back. It feels unnervingly like that evening she hugged him at the Zoo. Offering this miserable apology—and knowing it isn't enough.  _Can't_  be—because she can never comprehend the extent of his grief.

Breaking the kiss, Haji presses his lips to her forehead. His ragged breathing stirs her hair. "I—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"It's all right—" She can't pretend anymore not to cry. Tears spill from her burning eyes; throat choked in sobs. Haji makes a pained noise. Circles her in tighter, kissing her wet eyelids, stilling her trembling lips with his. She whispers into his mouth: "I-I'm sorry. But it's too late—for what you're asking. Please just—think of right now. This moment. I-I don't want to forget this, Haji— _please_."

His eyes darken. Full of secrets he can never say—out of duty, and beyond. Then suddenly, he's kissing her, over and over, hungry, helpless.

Seizing her arms off his shoulders, he presses her wrists up over her head. Drives into her like he wants to drown inside her.  _Enfold_  her completely. Each of his thrusts reverberates through her whole body. Making her toes curl, making her flush and writhe. She hears sobbing cries spilling up her throat, swallowed by his mouth. Both of them shuddering all over, skins slippery with sweat. A cauldron at full-boil.

He kisses her as if branding into her body an epitaph he can never say in words.

Words she will never believe anyway,

So much sensation, so  _raw_ , it can't last—and doesn't. She peaks in an excruciating spasm, her whole body shaking. Head tossing back, she sobs openmouthed, taking all of Haji in that final moment, every muscle tightening, convulsing. It keeps on, his mouth sucking the cries from her, never stopping, never letting go, and just when the pleasure bleeds into  _pain_ , he ends on a shock of rippling muscle. His strangled groan overlaps hers—a dyad of despair.

Later, she isn't sure how long afterward, they are back in her bed. The sheets are a moist tangled cocoon around them. She breathes in gasps, bones gone to liquid, heartbeat swallowing her head-to-toe. Aware of Haji's full weight on her, his slick skin and sweet lingering kisses. She doesn't want him to move; doesn't want to stop touching him. Every bit of sensation—his damp hair spilling around her face, the pebbles of his spine under her stroking fingers—is exquisite.

Exhaustion creeps in. Wrung in sweat and tears, she slips into sleep, even as his lips cover hers. Whispering words only her sensorium absorbs.

Words that taste like his kisses.

* * *

In dreams, she sees Haji on that same opera stage. Sees him flash a heartbreaking smile, saying those same words in a eulogy. Right before concrete crushes him amid thunder and her screams.

It is an omen that kills parts of her, still untouched by duty.

An omen that will prove prophetic.

* * *

 


	31. Detaché

**CW: Violence/Gore**

* * *

 

 **Detaché:**  playing notes separately

* * *

Haji had always wanted to visit the Metropolitan Opera.

From news of the great fire that burned its interior in 1892, to the gorgeous strains of Puccini's  _La Boheme_ he first heard in the late 1900s, he'd always kept a discrete track of its events. To him, the place symbolized what it did to any musician. A sacred epicenter.

But entering the splendid plaza tonight, he feels no excitement.

Now, this is simply  _duty_.

After the 'Old Met' on 1411 Broadway closed in 1966, the new building at Lincoln Center debuted, with an international premier of  _Antony and_   _Cleopatra_. Haji had seen glimpses of it—on television and in magazines.

But nothing compares to being here in person.

A brilliant Swarovski chandelier blazes above him. Its crystalline light shines off the red velvet walls with gold-leaf paneling; illuminating the gleaming curve of the wide staircases and their polished banisters. Enormous Chagall paintings hang on either side of the window-arches. The spotless lobby below them is dotted with opera-goers. Gentlemen in dark evening suits; ladies glittering in colors and jewels. The inhouse Grand Tier Restaurant hums with chatter. The performance has not yet begun.

And, as far as Haji's senses can ascertain, Diva is not here.

"Shit. S'like a snob mob down there."

He doesn't acknowledge David's remark. The man sidles up to him, George in tow. Unlike Haji, who is dressed in a slim-cut black suit, they both are in ushers' uniforms. Other Red Shield operatives are posted—at strategic areas—for signs of Diva.

Without preamble, Haji asks, "Have you spotted her?"

David shakes his head. "Not yet. Our teams conducted a sweep ten minutes ago. No one matches her description."

"What about Saya? Was she not arriving with you?"

"She'll come in a different car. To avoid detection. The plan is: we all show up separately, but—hopefully—leave together."

"Even more hopefully, with Diva's crystallized tuchis in tow," George grins.

Haji nods. Defeating Diva is tonight's sole highlight. Still, he has a portentous feeling. As if something terrible will soon occur.

Smirking, David brushes imaginary dirt off Haji's shoulder. "My my. Don't we look  _lovely_."

Haji ignores him.

"Really. Who'd you kill for that suit? I might just borrow it for the next Red Shield gala."

"Maybe it's a rental?" George says. " 'Course, with our business, bloodstains are a bitch to wash off. They'd never take it back."

David shrugs. "Their loss. Right, Haji?"

Again, Haji makes no answer. He knows David and George are only trying to lighten the mood. But he cannot join in. There is a strange pressure building inside him, sending his thoughts skittering, even as he narrows them on the impending task.

The culmination of their Mission—of all Saya's sacrifices—could be decided here.

_I could finally help her complete her duty. And lose her in the same stroke._

The idea is both cathartic and terrifying.

Beside him, George whistles at the scenery. "Damn. This is a ritzy place. The carpeting probably costs more than I make in a  _year_."

" _Ten_ years," David says. "Even then, you oughtta give up that daydream about a juicy retirement pension, and a castle in Okinawa."

George shrugs. "Hey, I'd settle for a leaky shack, so long as I can live there. Maybe, as a side job, I'd open up a little seafood restaurant?"

"Eugh. With  _your_  cooking? The Japanese government would deport your roasted ass."

Haji tunes their banter out. His thoughts drift to Saya, wondering when she will arrive. If he closes his eyes, he can still remember how she'd felt, sleeping beside him last night. Warming the entire bed, warming  _him_ —her skin burning phosphorescent scars wherever it touched his. Remembers too, how she'd looked, when he'd regretfully awoken her in morning. Radiant as a child, a half-smile on her pretty lips.

Until the reminder of duty had snuffed it out.

Awkwardness had hung between them as they'd dressed and parted for the day. Saya to reconnoiter with Joel for news about Diva; Haji to meet David's squadron, review their plan for the Met.

Still, his thoughts kept furcating in a  _detaché_. Swirling around  _Saya_.

Last night, imbibing her sweetness hadn't been enough. Never would be. There is still  _too much_ he wants to tell her. He wants to fall to his knees before her. Ask her to  _live_. Wants to plead that two nights of intimacy with her are even more painful than none. Because if she goes, he'll have even less to hope for in his life. Even more to mourn.

She'd told him, when they'd made love, that it was too late for her to go on. But she has to realize what a  _lie_  that is! He'd felt nothing  _but_ life singing through her body. Nothing but energy and promises. How can she extinguish that, when, for him, she is the only oxygen left?

Without her, he will choke.

At the same time, his misgivings cannot darken that  _undeniability_ that came from being with her. It is not just that Saya lay down the armor last night; that she revealed how much she needed comfort. It is that sense of  _rightness_  he'd felt in her arms. That bliss of being with someone you love.

It will not change anything. But it is still something that will always remain between them. Something he can hold onto if all else fails.

A solid memory to prove that what they'd had these few days was real.

Beside him, George raises an eyebrow. "Didja have a nice night, pal?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"You're humming  _Foxy Lady_."

Haji blinks.

At his right, David snorts. "Screw that. Not even Jesus coulda slept through the racket these two banshees were making yesterday."

Haji glares at him. "Pardon me?"

"You and Saya. You're in the same building Red Shield put  _me_  in. The room behind yours."

Haji winces.

"Yeah," David grumbles. "Lucky me. Hell, the way you two were carrying on, it's amazing no one called the cops. Or that Saya was still  _alive_ , next morning."

Haji's face goes hot, then cold. He wonders how loud David would squeal if he hurled him over the staircase. The consequences would be bloody—but it would be beautiful for a moment.

George snickers. "Aw. Cut him some slack, sir. Look. His face's red."

Perhaps he should throw  _George_  over the stairs too.

Excusing himself through gritted teeth, he makes his way down. The lobby has grown more crowded. People brush by, exuding disorienting waves of cologne and body-heat. Making it even harder to detect newcomers.

Still, he catches traces of...  _something_.

Eyes narrowed, he concentrates on that distinct tingle at his nape. Someone has entered the building. Someone with the same blood as his.

Could it be Diva?

Or is it—?

Then a hand grips his arm—a grip he feels all the way from his spine to his groin.

"Any sign of her?"

Haji turns.

 _Oh_.

Saya stands behind him. Looking jittery, impatient. Her hair is twisted up off her slender neck, shining under the chandeliers. The style is reminiscent of how she'd wear it for the Zoo's balls. But the comparison ends there. There is no girlishness to this Saya. Her dress is wine-red, bias-cut, with dramatic lantern sleeves and a skirt falling in elegant folds of tulle around her ankles. Mouth painted deliciously red; plump and shiny. No jewelry except the glitter of rhinestone earrings.

Startled, Haji finds himself staring. He hasn't seen Saya in anything so feminine in  _years_. Nowadays, she is always in big coats and boots: ready for combat. He means to make some pleasant remark—some acknowledgement of how beautiful she looks.

But all that comes out is: "There is no sign of Diva so far."

Saya nods. All business. "What if this trap really _is_  a decoy? To lure us here, while Diva's shipped someplace else?"

"We will know soon enough."

She nods again, lips pursed. A hair-pin twinkles at the side of her updo. A red lacquer lily, its petals inlaid with diamonds, stands out on the bridge. Looking closer, Haji realizes it is actually a blade—a Japanese  _kansashi_ , like a samurai's daughter might wear. She has  _weapons_ in her hair—and no doubt everywhere under her dress.

Armed to the teeth.

"Where is your sword?" he asks.

"I left it with David. If there's any sign of trouble, he'll bring it to me."

He raises an eyebrow. "I thought that was  _my_  duty?"

She manages a smile. "Sorry. But a katana would have been too obvious, sticking out of your coat. Red Shield specified that we're to keep a low profile."

At this, he can't resist teasing. "Don't you think a red dress somewhat defeats that purpose?"

To his disappointment, her smile fades. "I hate this stupid dress. Red Shield got it for me, but I hated putting it on. The color… reminds me of awful things."

"Blood?"

"No."

"What then?"

Her gaze is clouded. "Have you forgotten? Those lilies I asked you to get me, at the Zoo? They were the same ugly shade as this."

He represses a chill.

He  _has_  forgotten. Not deliberately, but because, from his perspective, those lilies were the most trivial aspects of that evening. He could've been fetching her  _peonies_ , for the difference it made. The only fact was that, in a breath, he'd died and come back to life by that cliffside. Been made into something entirely  _hers_.

But Saya would never see it that way.

Her small hand grips his arm. "Walk with me. We shouldn't stay in one spot too long."

He lets himself be steered through the lobby. Trying not to move too close to her, to catch all those subtle aromas off her skin. Every vibrant little scent he wishes he doesn't have to know—because he already knows them so well, and doesn't  _want_  to stop.

Even if he must.

They position themselves by the Grand Tier's bar. The lamps are dim and bronze, the air redolent of wine. Not too crowded—just a few couples at the tables, and some lone men at the stools. The mirror ahead, lined with gleaming bottles, affords a clear vantage of the main entrance.

The bartender smiles. "Evening, folks. What's your pleasure?"

"Erm…" Saya looks bemused. Between them, Haji veers towards teetotalism, and she knows next to nothing about mixed drinks. Their only experience with alcoholic beverages is wine.

Mercifully, Haji says, "She will have a Shirley Temple. Lime-water for myself."

When the bartender leaves, Saya glares at him.

"What?" he asks.

"Did you just order me a  _children's_  drink?"

He winces. "I am sorry. If this were London, you could have alcohol with a meal. But you look too young to drink in this country."

Saya scowls deeper, then abruptly calls to the bartender. "My friend has changed his mind. He'll take a Chateau Margaux." To herself, she mutters, "Hopefully they serve it by the glass."

He winces again. "Wouldn't it be cheaper to just buy the bottle?"

" _You_  buy it, if you want it so badly." When their orders arrive, she shoves the berry-garnished Shirley Temple at him, and snatches the wineglass for herself. Sighing, Haji stares down into his saccharine-pink beverage, the strawberries floating on top like clotted blood. But inside, he is smiling.

Holding the wineglass by its stem, Saya swirls the wine around, letting it open up. In the pindot lights, her profile is gilded in gold. The lily hair-pin twinkles at the side of her head like a warning.

All day long, he has been hoping for such a moment with her. To plead for her to forget their promise. Reconsider her terrible deathwish. But now that the chance presents itself, all his carefully-constructed arguments unravel.

Without thinking, almost without breathing, he says, "Saya...?"

Mid-swirl, she glances up.

His body prickles all over, as if at a precipice. He looks away. A pre-Raphaelite painting hangs beyond them—an imitation of Rossetti's  _Lady Lilith_. He finds himself studying the woman's elegant columnar neck; the sculpted, full-lipped face and decadent red hair.

Little details to focus on, so he won't have meet Saya's eyes.

Except she is waiting for him to speak. He has no choice but to plunge.

"Saya—what I said the other night. When I asked you not to keep our promise—"

She blushes darkly. "Please. Let's not talk about it. W-We both know you didn't mean—"

"I did."

She jerks, as if in fright.

"I was not supposed to say those things. But—that does not mean I am sorry. I meant every word."

Saya drops her gaze. "Haji..."

"Is there no way I can convince you to believe it?"

She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter, even if there was. I can't live on. You know that."

"You can do anything you wish, Saya. It is not this Mission that prevents you from living. It is your own thoughts."

"Haji—" The word is brittle with tension.

Against his judgment, he keeps on. "You  _can_  live, Saya. There is no reason for you to give up on yoursel—"

" _Don't_." She touches his hand. It is not a caress, but a dissuasion. "Please. Just listen to me. I have a duty to complete. And I'm not going to abandon it, just to fulfill this—this strange  _daydream_  you suddenly have about me. I'm not your responsibility, no matter what you think. You have no reason to keep taking care of me."

Her words—blunt, brutal—make him seethe. His voice tightens. "Don't you think it is a little insulting, that you write me off this way?"

She flushes, but says nothing. Her hand slips off his. It looks so pale and vulnerable against the cool darkness of the table. He senses a tension in the limpness of her fingers, a tightness quivering through each joint.

But he cannot make himself touch her. Not now.

"Saya, I am not doing this out of a  _daydream_. I am doing this for  _you_. Back at the Zoo, if Joel was ever in danger of harming himself, would you abandon him? Or would you do everything in your power, to help him recover? This is no different. I must do all I can for you. There is no question of  _why_  or  _why not_. You must understand that."

She shuts her eyes. "I  _do_  understand, Haji. And…I feel sorry for you."

He stiffens.

"I've got nothing left that you could want. Or that anyone could. And I'm not planning on living after the war is over. No matter what you say. I can't."

"Saya—"

Now, she opens her eyes to regard him. The gaze reminds him of broken mirrors. A warped reflection that disembowels. "Haji—I'm sorry if this makes you unhappy. But I have no choice in this war. If you want to go, you  _can_. You've done enough."

"We have been over this, Saya. I cannot. Not while you are still here." Twin flares of grief and frustration erupt. Swallowing, he looks away. "There—is this beach I know in Okinawa. I wish you could see it. The water is so blue—"

Saya lets off a sigh. "And the surf rolls in on the evenings. And the cooking—" He smells her tears, although she doesn't sob. " _Please_ , Haji. I want to—you have no idea how much. But it's too late for me."

His tongue feels gluey. He cannot answer.

"I… almost wish I was two different Sayas," she says. "One to be cold and heartless and fight the war. And the other to be clean and innocent. To live her life all over again."

"Saya—"

"But that can't happen. This is all I am now. And I wish you wouldn't keep asking me to live—showing me a future—because it just makes me want to believe you. And I can't." Her throat works. She speaks with a strange raspy intensity. "I am a Chiropteran. I can never dream about tomorrow. It's not what my duty is about."

"It is not what mine is about either, Saya. My duty is to serve you. To tell you to fight. But each time I do, it is as though I am failing you—"

_As a lover. As family._

Everything in his body convulses to those words. But he cannot say them. Cannot muster any more reasonable spiels or interjections. The sorrow of her wasted life, of his own, is too much to swallow. He wonders, sickly, if this is what his final memory of her will be. A beautiful stranger in a red dress, eulogizing her own death. The smell of despair overlapping the strong aroma of cigarettes and alcohol, the lamps low and secretive, in a perverse aura of romance.

_I can't let it end this way._

_I have to make this come out differently._

"Saya," he whispers. "I—"

Her little hand touches his jaw. She turns his head, leaning on tiptoe to press a kiss to his mouth—a long, silencing kiss that warms him all over. Draining speech. They'd been so close all night, curled together in bed. And even before that, deliciously entwined as they'd made love, kissing and rocking in the dark.

But somehow, her kiss is more intimate than any of that.

Saya draws back to regard him. He still feels the hot imprint of her mouth.

"You haven't failed me, Haji. There's been so much... ruin and disappointment... all my life. But never with you. You've kept me alive this far. Helped me make the most of what I've been given. And that's... that's all I care about anymore. It's enough for me."

Haji forces himself to nod. But his throat is clotted.

_Perhaps so, Saya._

_But it was_ never _enough for_  me _._

* * *

The winter air is still and chilly. The iconic fountain outside Lincoln Center sloshes brilliantly—a spectacular golden pillar. Backlit by the glow, well-dressed men and women troop through the main doors.

Stationed casually by the wall, David lights a cigarette.

He's just gotten in touch with the teams at the North and South. Both areas are clear; there is no sign of Diva.

So far.

Somehow, the waiting just makes him antsier. Saya's sheathed sword is strapped under his heavy coat, a potent weight. He can feel the pressure his own gun in his shoulder-holster. The weapon seems radioactive against his skin. Waiting for a target.

Except there is none.

It makes David wonder if Diva will even  _show_. This could be—as Joel Goldschmidt had systematically squawked—a  _trap_.

 _If it is, we need to stay on guard._   _And_   _then some._

 _Especially_   Saya  _and_  Haji.

He half-wants to barge inside and tell them. Last he'd seen, the pair was canoodling at the Grand Tier's bar, when they  _should'_ ve been keeping watch.  _Typical_. How can anyone think of getting all kissy-goo-goo at a time like this?

_Must be a French thing._

Suddenly, he hears a singy-songy female voice: "Oh—but Wallace did  _such_  a good job on this building. Look at the  _style_. Extravagant, yet elegant. He's  _really_  outshined himself. We  _must_  ask for his help for that XYZ Building plan. Y'know, the one Nel Rockefeller mentioned, when he and Margaretta were over last evening? Do get in touch with him, won't you, Amshel?"

"I suspect Nelson has already contacted him," says a male baritone. "He and Wallace are old associates."

"Oh, but of course. And  _speaking_  of associates— _look_! There's Raymond Perelmon's boy—Ronald! Oh, and his new bride's with him! Real estate heiress, Faith Golding! Faith tells me they met on some cruise to Israel. Poor girl thinks it was  _terribly_ romantic. She's too smitten to realize her new hubby does the beast with two backs with half the heiresses in New York. And—oh my! Diana Vreeland's here! I  _must_ say hello to her! Her latest issue of Vogue was just  _fabulous_! She's in charge of tonight's  _costumes_  too, you know. Don't know who that beefcake with her is. Must be some new fling. She has a new one every _week_. Oh—and look Amshel! There's Carly Icahn!"

"Where?"

" _There_! You've heard of that new securities firm he's formed, right? Icahn and Co?  _Very_  promising. I think we're going to see great things from that boy. And  _hello!_ Who's the little trick on his arm? Not Wifey, that's for sure. What a  _ghastly_  dress she's wearing! I wouldn't use that as a  _dishrag_."

"Do not be rude to them."

"Oh, don't chastise  _me_! Focus your attentions on  _Diva_. I  _won't_  stand for leaving early, just because she ate the  _ushers_  again!"

"She will not." The deep voice lowers. "You will be on your best behavior. Won't you, Diva?"

"Quiet as a porcelain doll, Father," a girl says sweetly.

David's cigarette slips from his lips.

_Diva...?_

He sees them then. Three figures moving for the entrance. One well-dressed man and two women. He: broad-shouldered and dour, in a conservative black suit. The older woman: tall and vivacious, with cascading red hair, in a floor-length gown of royal purple. And beside her, a young girl, wearing a fitted black velvet frock and a blood-red smile.

A girl who looks exactly like  _Saya_.

_Fuck._

David's pulse beats so sharply he feels it in his fingertips.

_Oh fuck. That's her._

Diva _._

Breath held, he waits for them to sweep through the Met's doors. And, in a blink, sprints for the closest outpost.

_Have to warn the other teams._

_Have to warn_ Saya _._

"Ah-ah- _ah_. I wouldn't do that if I were you."

" _Christ_." David skids to halt. Suddenly, he is face to face with the redhead who'd just entered the building. "How did you—?"

"Well, you know. The city was a-twinkle. Magic was in the air." Her eyes glitter strangely. "I just couldn't keep away."

Wary, David backtracks.

He doesn't like the look on her face. At all.

"Listen, lady. I think you've had one too many—"

The woman gasps, interrupting. "Oh—I know  _you_!" Her manner is gleeful. Like two Friends of Friends who have run into each other at a party. "You're that Red Shield fellow!  _David_!"

"What the fuck? How'd you know my—?"

"-Your  _name_? Oh, like you need to  _ask_? I make it my business to know  _everybody's_  name." She flashes a grin. Her teeth are very white. And very very sharp.

David freezes.

Her voice isn't female anymore. It is too deep. Too masculine.

In the dark, her eyes glow red.

_Shit._

"Back the fuck off." His right hand moves for his shoulder-holster.

Lightning-fast, the woman swoops behind him. Grabbing his wrist, she wrenches his arm up against his back _._   _Hard_. Blinding pain lances through David. Cursing, he struggles. But the woman— _no, not a woman. A Chevalier_ —is too strong. Forcing David's arm at a crushing angle, she holds him steady.

"Tsk, tsk. A  _gun_? You  _know_  they never work on us."

"Maybe—not," David grunts. "But they'll sure—slow you down!"

As he speaks, his free hand darts for his holster. But the Chevalier is too quick. Before David can reach the gun, red-tipped fingers withdraw it from his coat.

Aghast, David watches as she crushes the barrel casually in her fist. Like a tube of  _charcoal_.

_Oh FUCK._

Terror floods him, supplanted by adrenaline. He struggles harder. But the Chevalier tightens her grip. Excruciating pain jolts up his arm, branching through the rest of his body. David fights down a  _snarl_.

"What—the hell—do you want?"

The Chevalier chuckles. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not going to  _eat_ you or anything. You'd be all tough and chewy, anyway. Like  _beef jerky_. I'll just settle for a quick  _bite._ "

"What—?" Icy realization supplants all pain. David struggles harder. "Lemme go, you little fudge-packer—"

"Now now.  _Language_. No one likes a dinner spewing profanities, you know."

David starts to answer—when a powerful thumb presses the nerve behind his neck. Excruciating pain ignites. He opens his mouth to yell, but can't. All his surroundings rush and whirl, round and round, like inside a giant drain. When he can see again, he's on his knees in some dark alley. The gravel floor grates his pantlegs. The Chevalier is still crouched behind him—a gleeful ravening monster. He feels her— _his_?—chilling breath in his ear.

"Oh, don't be so  _difficult_. I promise not to break anything. At least, nothing  _important_." Fangs graze his neck. David jerks in resistance. But the thumb is still pressed punishingly into his skin. Turning all his bones to jelly.

"Don't worry," the Chevalier says. "I'll keep this as pleasant as possible. After all, a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, in the most  _delightful_  way..."

The eerie refrain resonates through David's ears. Sharp fangs pierce his skin.

Then everything shatters on a  _scream_ , and he cannot see, hear, or think, anymore.

* * *

Saya jerks as if awoken from a dream of falling.

"Oh God."

Concerned, Haji turns to her. "What is it?"

Saya does not answer. Her whole body has transmogrified to a pair of wide staring eyes. Haji follows her gaze—and freezes.

A distinguished-looking couple has just entered the lobby. An unfamiliar woman in a purple gown, her red hair styled in glossy curls. And beside her, a heavyset, bearded man, with slicked-back hair and cold blue eyes.

_Amshel._

But they are not Saya's main target. It is the girl on Amshel's arm. A pale delicate girl in a strapless black frock. Her features are half-concealed by a silky curtain of hair. But when she tosses it back, giggling at something Amshel says, Haji sees her profile.

Porcelain face. Red lips. Blue eyes.

His heartbeat feels half-deafening.

_Diva._

"It's  _her._ " Saya's eyes burn red. Haji senses the rage humming off her. "She's heading for the auditorium."

"We need to lie low for now," he says. "Our orders are to strike at the best possible opportunity."

Saya is already moving forward. "Forget orders. She's right in front of us. We can't pass up on this chance."

Wincing, Haji snatches for her arm. "Saya—please do not act rashly. The plan is to somehow separate Diva from her Chevaliers. Then only can we overpower her. Anything else is too dangerous."

"Not if we—"

"Please, Saya. You know this as well as I. Do not jeopardize everything by acting too soon. Otherwise we  _all_ will regret it."

Saya glowers, yanking her arm free. But something on his face seeps through her flaring temper. Diffusing it into doubt.

Forcibly, she exhales. "All right."

Relieved, Haji glances again at Amshel and Diva. They are heading for the auditorium entryway. He sees other groups drifting there as well. The performance is about to begin.

"Knowing Amshel, he and Diva will probably have seats in the Grand Tier box," Saya says. "Joel always said the higher you sat, the better the sound was."

Haji nods. "We will not be able to approach Diva during the performance. Our best chance is to strike when the audience is preparing to depart."

Saya shakes her head. "Too much could happen by then. I say, we find some way to lure them out  _during_  the performance. Maybe before one of the intermissions. That way, when we attack, there'll be fewer witnesses."

Haji considers this angle. But before he can reply, he spots George hurrying toward them.

"We got a situation, people. Down the corridor."

"I know," Saya says. "Now we need to take them down."

"No can do. Officer David said you should take your seat right now. The show's starting. We have guys stationed around the area. If Diva so much as scratches her nose, they'll warn you."

Saya glares. "David wants me to just  _sit_  there? Where Diva can  _see_  me? In a seat  _she_ picked out?"

George scratches his head. "That's what he said. Don't sweat it. He must have something up his sleeve."

Saya exchanges looks with Haji. Inherently, the whole situation seems bizarre. But the fact is, they have no reason to distrust David. Strategy is his department, while combat is theirs—even if the two spheres tend to become hopelessly blurred during missions. Still, he has never steered them wrong.

After a moment's hesitation, Saya exhales, following George out the restaurant. But when Haji trails after, George shakes his head. "Not you. Officer David needs you backstage."

"Backstage?" Haji pauses. This was never in the plan. "What for?"

"He didn't specify. Said it was  _Need To Know_ , only. And I  _didn't_  need to know."

Haji tilts his head.  _Odd._

It isn't like David to make last minute changes to a mission. Especially one so critical.

Not unless there is an emergency…

He glances at Saya. The idea of her being alone in the auditorium, Diva and Amshel so near, does not sit well with him. He has no intention of splitting up, unless she orders it.

"Saya." The question is implicit.

She nods. "Go on, Haji. I'll be all right. David wouldn't switch our plan around, unless he had to."

"That's right," George says. "And relax. I'll keep an eye on Otonashi-san here."

This, from a boy barely old enough to shave, is hardly reassuring. Nonetheless, Haji has no choice. He nods to Saya. "If that is what you wish."

He watches her and George quit the lobby. As they turn the corner, George remarks, "Y'know, you kinda resemble a pint-sized Audrey Hepburn in that dress..." to Saya's confused " _Who_?"

Shaking his head, Haji exits the bar. A labyrinth of hallways leads to the first level backstage. Slipping past the ushers is no issue; Chiropteran speed, coupled with rising chords of music from the auditorium, keep his movements unnoticed. In the immense platform behind the proscenium, he glances around.

Everything is vast and dim. Spotlighting equipment and ropes of wire loom from the metal catwalks above. Strains from the orchestra resonate eerily. Frowning, Haji searches for traces of David's scent—gunpowder and bootblack. Except there is nothing.

Until—

" _Psst_. Hey, Haji? Over here."

He turns.

At the vestibule, David's silhouette is visible. He seems to be beckoning.

Frowning, Haji takes a step forward. "What is it?"

"Come here. You need to see this."

Haji hesitates. An uncanny sixth-sense is acting up. David's tone seems... off. Too arch, too lyrical. Indeed, the whole  _scenario_  feels off.

David wouldn't call him backstage, mid-duty, even if he was wounded. Even if, by some absurd stroke of luck, he'd captured one of Diva's Chevaliers, or something equally ludicrous.

_Something is wrong._

"David?" Another step. But he still cannot see David's face. Cannot detect his scent. "What's going on?"

Suddenly, David's silhouette vanishes.

Confused, Haji moves forward. He doesn't hear the whistle of a claw swooping behind him. Doesn't feel it until it impales his back, erupting in a splatter of blood from his ribcage.

_Thwack._

The room erupts into  _red_. Haji's mouth opens in a soundless howl. Excruciating heat, piercing his back, his lungs, his very core. The pain swallows him, so total that he nearly blacks out. He fumbles for his shirt, feeling the hot slickness of blood. A red-smeared claw protrudes from his chest.

"God—" he chokes.

"Actually, tonight, I'd just prefer  _Mrs. Goldsmith_."

Haji's eyes widen.

_Who...?_

Instinctively, he grabs the claw buried in his torso. Pivoting like a dancer, he jerks his attacker off-balance—simultaneously tearing himself free from the bloodstained appendage.

Adrenaline buzzing, Haji wheels to face his opponent.

It is the redheaded female Amshel and Diva arrived with. Slow, catlike, she straightens from her sprawl on the floor. The bodice of her purple gown is speckled in blood. Her right arm is soaked upto the elbow with it. Another dark line trickles down her smiling lips.

As Haji watches, she brings her bloodstained hand to her mouth. Sucks leisurely on her fingers, one by one, as if they are covered in syrup.

"Sugar and spice," she says. "Everything nice. That's what  _this_  little boy is made of."

The string in Haji's spine snaps.

_Oh God._

That isn't a woman at all.

It is a  _Chevalier_.

Eyebrow arched, she gives him a once-over. "My my. I have to give Saya credit. You're one tall cool drink of water I would  _love_  to pour down my throat."

Haji says nothing. Merely reaches for the daggers secreted in his coat.

The woman pouts. "Aw. Why so hasty? We haven't even gotten acquainted yet. After all, they say that once in his life,  _every_  man's entitled to fall madly in love with a  _gorgeous_  redhead."

"What have you done with David?" Haji snaps.

Her smile widens. "Oh, forget  _him_. He's not on the evening's menu. That spot, angelboy, is reserved entirely for  _you_."

Haji makes no answer. Only whips his daggers at her—a deadly silver spray.

In a bluish flash, the Chevalier ducks. Haji's blades embed into the walls like arrows. In the next breath, his opponent drops down on him from above.

Dodging the first blow, Haji ripostes with a high kick to the Chevalier's jaw. But his enemy evades, grabbing his ankle and twisting him off-balance. Air rushes through Haji's ears. He collides back-first with the floor. Kicking out, rolling clear of his opponent, he leaps to his feet. But the Chevalier rushes at him again. Her arm elongates into a wicked-sharp claw before Haji's eyes.

He tries to duck, but she is too fast. Stars erupt everywhere. Hot blood splashes his skin. With punishing force, she drives her claw clean through Haji's still-healing chest wound. Caught off-guard, Haji is skewered in mid-air. And, a split-second later,  _slammed_  down as she pins him to the concrete.

Agony suffuses his whole body. The room goes gray at the edges.

Grinning vindictively, the woman brings her high-heel down on his chest. There is a muffled  _crack._  Haji feels one of his ribs pop. But the pain is secondary to that  _claw_  impaling him. It feels like a tree-trunk lodged through his chest.

Blood gushes in rhythmic streams from the wound. His strength seems to leak out with it. Teeth clenched, Haji wraps both hands around the claw. Tries to force it out. But the Chevalier merely gives a spiteful  _twist._

Haji gnashes his teeth. Everything is a nauseating riot of color.

Chuckling, his opponent leans in. Red hair waterfalling down to frame her patrician face and cool sphinx eyes. She looks uncannily like the painting of  _Lady Lilith_  at the bar. The classic femme fatale.

"There's no point in struggling. I'd just beat you down. And  _honestly_ , I'd rather not. If you end up too damaged, it would ruin my plan."

_Plan...?_

Haji struggles to concentrate.

_What does she...?_

Through his wavering vision, he sees another figure. A girl in white. She melts languidly from the shadows. The shafts of light from the ceiling make her dark hair gleam.

Vague blue eyes. A bleeding heart mouth.

Haji blinks.

For a moment, he cannot comprehend what he is seeing.

_Diva?_

_Wasn't she in the auditorium...?_

The redhead beams. " _There_  you are, my precious!  _Look_. Here is  _my_  present for the contest! Gift-wrapped in a blue ribbon, with all the pretty trimmings!"

Diva smiles, but does not answer. Only looks at Haji. Their eyes meet. And, despite the burning agony, Haji fights a chill.

Suddenly, terribly, he understands what is happening.

Understands too, that he suspected it all along.

_No._

_Please, no..._

"Oh, Nathan." Diva's eyes glitter. Lost in a bloodcurdling fantasy. "He's absolutely  _perfect_."

* * *

 


	32. Altissimo

**CW: Attempted Rape/Non-consensual situations**

* * *

**Altissimo:**  Very high.

* * *

Fire.

All Haji sees is fire. A kaleidoscopic vortex of color and light. Red, yellow, blue. It envelops everything around him. Devouring his mind.

_Where am I? What is going on?_

Faces morph from the fire. People he recognizes, but cannot name. A fantastic carousel of bodies—illustrated by Goya, sung in screams. He sees Diva, silhouetted by the Zoo's blazing mansion. Sees Chiropterans, fangs glistening in an orange glow. Sees soldiers, hacked under a bloodstained blade.

And he sees  _Saya_. Lifting naked arms to a psychedelic sky, scarlet shards flying off her skin. The whole scene otherworldly. Enchanting. The rebirth of a mythical being.

Her eyes snap open. Glowing red.

" _Haji_..."

And then the flames swallow her, swallow everything. Blinding him in a multihued inferno. Strange…How can flames hold such a vast spectrum, unless they are at different temperatures? Impossible for so many—so  _suddenly_ —to create such an intense conflagration.

_This is not real._

_It cannot be._

"Well. All his  _marbles_  are accounted for," a voice says. "Hypnogagic mind-tricks have no effect whatso _ever_."

"What about his eyes?" a girl says. "The black seeds in the middle are different sizes."

"Oh, the unequal pupils? Never fear. They'll be fine. I got too  _frisky_  during our face-off." A sigh. "Happens all the time."

Haji tries to narrow the voices out. The flames aerosolize like dream fragments. Through the blur, he sees two vague figures.

One male. One female.

Both familiar—but disturbingly so.

The man chuckles. "Baby's waking up. He knows we've been peeking into his mind. Checking out all its treasure-chests."

"All the bitemarks too," the girl says. "All the lovely red scars."

 _I_   _know_   _those voices,_  Haji thinks.

In the space of a handclap, the flames evaporate. No more dizzying hues. No incredible light.

Instead, a room materializes. Some sort of parlor.

The decor is surreal—a page from the Arabian nights, splashed with the glitter of old-age Europe. A soaring ochre ceiling, inlaid in arabesque arches. Red walls: covered in exotic tapestries and rows of paintings. The floor is polished marble, interspersed with thick rugs and throwpillows. The windows—what he sees of them—are shielded by long burgundy drapes, their sashes tangled in gold. Stained-glass lamps create a muticolored glow.

Haji stares. The splendor is disorienting—a room fit for a pasha, a whore or a madman. If not for the modern lamps and switches, he would think he has fallen through a loophole in reality.

On the walls, the paintings seem to jump at him. Men and women on horseback; in glossy armors and elegant finery. A saga of warriors, gods and royalty. The splendor of Norse myth.

And the two largest paintings...

_Impossible…_

Each painting depicts a darkhaired girl. A girl with a  _very_  familiar face.

The first: dreamy and blue-eyed, sheathed in a white lace gown. She hovers near a thatch of periwinkles, her hair flowing against an eerie midnight-blue background. As if she is floating through night sky. Or plunging backward into sea.

And the second: ostensibly, the same girl. Except her eyes are red and hooded. Her hair is wilder, spilling down her body. Bare from waist up, skin splattered in blood, she stands with a sword clasped in one hand, backlit by a fiery glow. Her face: savage as an executioner. Imperious as a queen.

Haji shakes his head.

_How can that be? They look just like..._

"Enjoying the  _decor_?" the man asks. "I  _never_  get it redone. Instead, each year, I just add something  _new_  to the collection. A pun on immortality itself, you could say. And those paintings are by an artiste that history oh-so- _impertinently_  forgot. I bought the entire set mainly for those two Queens in the forefront. The artist thought they were myths—but  _I_  know better, even if I wish I didn't."

Haji's disorientation fades.

Two people are near him. Looking down into his confused expression with smiles.

Wait— _down_?

He realizes he is strapped to a chair. Ankles shackled to its sturdy legs, wrists tied behind the backrest. He can wriggle his fingers, shift his shoulders and hips. But nothing more. Someone has taken off his bloodstained coat. His stiletto daggers are also gone. He sees them scattered across the carpet like fallen martyrs.

But that is not the worst part.

All his muscles are gelid. Like someone has pulped his limbs. Throat furred; a sick metallic taste in his mouth. As if...

"Why yes. You  _are_  sedated," the man says. "Not with drugs, mind you. This is a mixture of herbs our clan's healers made in Ye Olde Days. To deal with non-compliant Chevaliers. They cause mild lethargy everyplace but where it  _counts_. Kick it yourself and see."

With effort, Haji moves his head.

A man with long black dreadlocks and an impudent face stands beside him. Haji has never seen him before. But his swaggering tone is identical to the redheaded woman from the proscenium. Instinctively, Haji knows it is the same person.

 _Diva's_   _Chevalier_.

And beside him...

Haji freezes.

Perched on a polished Viennese table, a vase of blood-red camellias beside her, is  _Diva_. Wearing a white silk robe, her cheeks pink and hair loose and shining. Catching Haji's eye, she smiles, crossing her legs. Her right knee slips out between the robes, pale and smooth in the lamplight. Like ice.

Which is how Haji's blood feels. Chilled with terror.

Abruptly, past events recoalesce. The opera house. Amshel and Diva in the auditorium. Saya heading there with George. David calling Haji backstage. Where he was ambushed, knocked out. And then—

Belatedly, Haji realizes how silent the room is. Not like the cacophony of noise and odor at the Met. Even if he were on one of its upper floors, he'd still hear the music.

Still sense  _Saya_.

"You aren't there anymore," the Chevalier drawls, as if reading Haji's mind. "This glorious rendezvous deserved to be held somewhere  _private_. Don't fret, though. Lincoln Center isn't far. And neither, by proxy, is your precious Saya."

The name galvanizes Haji with fear, overshadowing the sedative. Not fear for himself. For  _Saya_. He'd left her unguarded in the auditorium. Amshel might still be there.

_Is she all right?_

_Or has she been…?_

Diva giggles. "Listen, Nathan. I can hear his heartbeat. It sounds like a dove Solomon once caught for me. Fluttering in the palm of my hand." Her fingers fan out hypnotically. Snap shut. Again, and again, like beating wings.

Or a pulse.

Haji's own is speeding up. He struggles against his restraints.

_Have to get out of here._

_Have to find_  Saya.

Again, the Chevalier— _Nathan_ —speaks preemptively. "Don't dehydrate yourself, sweetboy. If all goes well, no harm will come to your Queen. Or, for that matter, to  _you_."

Haji struggles harder.

Nathan smirks. "Feel free to wiggle all you like. Or  _scream_ , if that's your bag. No one will hear you. This room is soundproofed."

 _Soundproofed_ —?

Terror is a rancid shriveling in his gut. He forces it down. "What—do you want?"

"What do  _I_  want? Why, that's  _very_  simple. The same thing every Chevalier wants. My Queen's happiness. But for that, I have to resign myself as the  _boute d'entrain_  tonight. The main duty lies with  _you_."

_Boute d'entrain...?_

Haji glances from Nathan to Diva.

And, as Diva licks her lips, freezes.

Nathan isn't calling himself the French equivalent of  _Life of the Party_. He is referring to the stallion used to excite mares during mating season. So they can breed with the studhorse.

Which, obscenely, is  _him_.

_Oh God._

Suddenly, he understands why he is here. Why he was tied up and sedated. And why his sixth sense has kept ringing tonight.

His worst nightmare—ever since he was sold into sexual bondage as a child—has come true.

* * *

"Fuckinfuck _shit_."

Lying on his side, David groans. Every muscle stiff, the side of his neck throbbing. He tries to rise. Dizziness engulfs him; his head feel like a dumbell. At the same time, it is a balloon, bobbing high into the air.

He rolls onto his back. His body is tangled in something slippery. Spaghetti? Tentacles?

 _Fuck_.

Nausea surfaces. He thinks he might puke.

_I'm a trained professional._

_We do not_ puke.

His eyes open. An alleyway flickers into focus. The sky above it, starless.

He lies on hard concrete. In something that looks—if not  _smells_ —like mud. To his left: two wooden crates, and a reeking trashcan. And the tangle: a glossy clump of cassette reels.

The omnipresent blare of New York traffic fills the air. And closer, he hears a dull roar. Light plays across the alley's walls, making the shadows sway.

Making his head hurt like a  _bitch_.

"Goddamn  _Chevalier_."

Fully awake now, David sits up. The scenery wavers, then refocuses. He glances around. His surroundings are unfamiliar—the Met is nowhere in sight. He has no idea how he got here. But one fact is reassuring:

His attacker is absent.

_Thank God._

Groping along the wall, David pulls himself up. His legs are wobbly. But nothing seems broken. Breathing slowly, he scans the area. A red neon glare from an all-night bodega lights the alley. When David first arrived at the Met, he'd instinctively followed procedure and scouted out the streets, familiarizing himself with the neighboring routes.

Which is why he recognizes that bodega. It is not too far from Lincoln Center.

_Now I just need to get there._

At his feet, metal chunks gleam: the shattered remains of his gun. He considers picking them up, but decides against it. He has an extra weapon. A Mauser HSc, tucked behind his belt. He wonders why he didn't pull it out when that Chevalier trashed his first weapon.

Then he recalls how  _impossible_  it was to move, with all his muscles like noodles.

_When I get my hands on that maniac..._

Gingerly, he touches his neck. He can feel two puffy bitemarks there. The skin is scabbed up, sticky with drying blood.

_That's gonna leave a scar._

His hand travels lower, feeling the outline of Saya's katana under his jacket. Still there. Relieved, he curls his fingers around the hilt. He wonders how long he's been out. Last he remembers, before getting bitten, was Diva entering the Met.

 _Shit_.

Is she still there? Do Saya and the others know?

The dull roar gains volume. The fluctuating lights brighten. Turning, David sees a vehicle backing into the alleyway. Its taillights glow like giant red eyes.

His first impulse is gratitude. A sign of life.

Except the recent attack has left his nerves stringy. For all he knows, it could be Diva's  _Chevalier_  behind the wheel. Grinning like a sharptoothed shark.

In a flash, David ducks behind the wooden crates.

It a truck, he realizes. A shipping truck—probably for furniture or food supplies. But something is odd. The container bears no logo. No license-plate. Odder still. The vehicle rocks back and forth on its shocks. As if something inside is trying to bang its way out.

Something  _big_.

Over the rumbling engine, David hears a muffled growl.

_What the—?_

Instinctively, he draws the Mauser from his belt. Flicks off the safety.

_Something's going on…_

The driver cuts the engine. Doors open and slam shut. He hears footsteps. Five men appear at the back of the truck. Three are in gray uniforms, like from a medical facility. Without a word, they begin to unlatch the container's door.

The remaining two men hang back, watching.

They seem different the uniformed trio—well-dressed, sophisticated. The first: blond, Caucasian, in a sharp-cut white suit. The second: long-and-dark-haired, Asian, in what resemble traditional Vietnamese garments.

_What the hell?_

The darkhaired man appears to be supervising the uniformed troop. He raps out orders, quick and precise, like someone accustomed to ruling over his little realm. The blond hangs back with a distant smile, one hand in coat-pocket. He has an air about him—one David associates with Joel Goldsmith and his flunkies. Insouciance in the extreme.

_What're these guys doing in an alleyway?_

Then he sees what's inside the truck.

Cages. Lots of cages. Each loaded with a dark sinister shape. In the darkness, yellow eyes glow. David hears rumbling growls.

His eyes widen.

_Chiropterans._

"Well done, gentlemen," the blond says. "We will take it from here. Your services are not required further."

"Yes, sir." The uniformed men nod. David senses that they are eager to get away.

The blond draws back his sleeve, checking his wristwatch. "Hm. It seems we are already late. The Met's performance has begun. Karl. See to their  _payment_ , won't you?"

The darkhaired man smiles. "With pleasure."

And vanishes.

What happens next is so fast, David almost misses it. One minute, the uniformed men are standing. Next, in a sequence of  _craacks_ , they crumple to the floor. Then, the darkhaired man is revealed, looming over them. Blood drips off his left hand. David sees more of it seeping from the men's torn throats. It turns the alley-floor a glittery black.

Reflexively, David's fingers tighten on his gun.

_Christ._

_What just happened—?_

He must've made the tiniest of sounds. Suddenly, both men turn.

In a blink, David is seized by the collar. Yanked, with  _incredible_  force, from his hiding place, and high into the air.

The darkhaired man holds him aloft. His eyes glow maliciously.

"Well, what have we here?" he says. "An  _eyewitness_."

Despite his precarious position, David extends his gun. "PUT ME DOWN!"

The blond tilts his head. "Oh my, Karl. I recognize him. He is one of our Great Enemy's allies."

"Red Shield, hm?" Karl's lip curls. "Should we dispose of him ourselves, Solomon? Or let the  _mice_  do it?"

"Not so hasty, little brother. If we take him prisoner, he might provide us with valuable information. Amshel would be pleased." Solomon chuckles. "Besides, the  _mice_  will have plenty of  _cheese_  at the opera. This one can spare himself the trouble."

" _Mice_?" David snaps. " _Cheese_? What're you two yapping about?"

Solomon and Karl exchange smiles. Two thieves complicit in a grand heist.

"Well, my friend," Solomon drawls. "It is quite obvious. You were sent here to find Chiropterans, after all." The air around him crackles at a disturbing voltage. His eyes glow terrifyingly red. "Well done, sir."

* * *

The auditorium is suffused in light.

Golden ceiling, golden stage curtains. The star-shaped crystal chandeliers sparkle, rising majestically as the performance begins.

But Saya barely notices.

Her eyes are on the two shapes in the Grand Tier box. Amshel and Diva. They sit motionless as mannequins. Except for their eyes. Moving back and forth, perusing the actors onstage. She sees them gleam.

_Right there._

_They're_  right there.  _And I can't—_

Ahead, performers swirl across a terrace covered in pink cherry-blossoms. The American protagonist, Pinkerton, enters in crisp white uniform. Accompanied by the tragic heroine, Cio-Cio-San, in a richly-patterned blue kimono. Their voices rise in sonorous harmony. Holding the audience enrapt.

But Saya's only focal point is  _Diva_.

The people seated on either side of her, their bodyheat and heartbeats, fade against her boiling frustration. The chandeliers' makes her skin hum. The entire place feels like an oven, and she is ready to  _explode_. The urge to get up, lunge at Diva, is unbearable. It devours all her senses. She imagines leaping in one high-spangled motion to the tier box. Imagines tearing Diva's throat open, her blood splattering the curtains, even as she begins to mutilate Amshel.

_So close._

_She's so damned_  close _._

Diva never glances her way. Her eyes are fixed on the stage. She seems spellbound by the Opening Act. But Saya can only focus on  _her_ , hatred as powerful as hypnosis. Taking in that profile, identical to hers. The long thin curve of cheek. The lush red lips. The black crepey-velvet gown that turns her skin milky.

A perversion, a  _blasphemy_ , for her to sit there. Looking so perfect—when she has hurled Saya's own world into ruin.

_Don't think about that._

_Not now._

Saya takes a deep breath. She wonders why Diva never glances her way. Can't she feel her sizzling frustration, smell her purulent rage? Or is her posturing deliberate? Could it be, that she and Amshel have not yet noticed her?

_That's impossible._

_They sent me the invitation. They must know I'm here tonight. This is all part of Amshel's sick plan._

Right?

She grits her teeth. Her instincts keep howling at her to attack Diva. But she can't attract attention to herself.  _Not so soon_

Onstage, Cio-Cio-San and Pinkerton stand in a moonlit garden. They sing a mellisonant love duet— _'Sweetheart, sweetheart, do not weep.'_

Saya closes her eyes. She already knows the story by heart. Joel had kept the original work, by John Luther Long, in the Zoo's library. She knows that Pinkerton, a freewheeling US sailor, has only chosen the innocent Cio-Cio-San in a marriage of convenience. He will seduce and impregnate her, then abandon her to raise his son, while he goes off to marry a 'real' American bride. At the climax of the story, Cio-Cio-San, after waiting in vain for her faithless husband, will learn of his new marriage.

And kill herself.

Onstage, Cio-Cio and Pinkerton's voice blend surreally with the music. The mood is impassioned, romantic—but one-sided. Pinkerton's body-language alone tells the audience he is insincere. What his starry-eyed bride sees as a consummation of soulmates, is to him, a cold seduction.

Did Haji, Saya wonders, seduce that girl from Red Shield this way? Unlikely. She'd be more inclined to say it was the other way around. Except that does not sound right, either. Feminine wiles have seldom worked on Haji. Manipulation, even less.

No. Now that she knows the truth, she can rationalize why he'd strayed:

 _Loneliness_.

A feeling that Saya comprehends too well.

Act I draws to a close. The newlyweds finish their arioso duet,  _Vogliatemi_   _bene—'Love me, please'._  The overtones are tragic—defloration and impending betrayal. Saya wonders, abstractedly, if Cio-Cio-San realizes this will be the apogee of her life. Everything afterward will be a downward spiral.

Her life had spiraled the same way, after the Bordeaux Sunday. She'd never considered, until then, that the foundation of her innocence could crumble so utterly. That purity that Joel's protection and the Zoo's closed walls had retained in her, that explicit library books, Amshel's cold eyes, and Haji's world-weary air had never truly touched, was destroyed after Diva escaped.

That day on the cliffside, picking lilies for Joel's birthday, was probably the last moment she'd been clean. Nothing had gone wrong: everything was fresh and full of hope.

Or so she'd thought.

She still dreams about the day, sometimes. Smells the fresh grass and cool air, hears the twittering birds as she licks the blackcurrant jam from her fingers. No problems. No regrets. Nothing suffusing her but the glow of contentment.

Until the dream fades into reality. Flooding her with a disorienting sense of loss.

Because her duty has leeched that very innocence from her life. Supplanted it with hatred.

Saya's hands clench into fists. Diva  _has_  to sense the rage pouring off her now. In its wake, the thrumming music, the very  _room_ , melts to oblivion. But despite it, Saya finds it odd that she cannot feel—

She freezes.

She realizes, in a jarring epiphany, that she cannot register Diva's scent.  _At all._  Her twin is but a few feet away. But despite all the heartbeats mingling with the orchestra, Saya cannot catch even a  _flicker_  of her presence.

But how—?

Her eyes widen.

_A decoy._

Clues fall into place. All those hints she had seen, but not taken in. And suddenly, overwhelmingly, she realizes how  _wrong_  everything is.

_Oh God._

She shoots to her feet, ignoring annoyed looks from the audience. Her heart pounds so hard she cannot feel her body. On jellyfish legs, she rushes through the narrow aisle. Looking, all the while, for signs of exit, escape.  _Anything_  to flee the auditorium.

_All wrong._

_This is all wrong._

Cutting a corner, ignoring irritated murmurs and glares, she spots George. He is moving toward her, wide-eyed.

"Hey— _Saya_ , what're you—?"

She grabs his coat. "Listen to me. There's been a mistake. That girl in the opera-box—she's not Diva. This is a—"

From somewhere backstage, there is a familiar  _roar_. She hears a flurry of gunshots—and a chorus of human screams. In the next blink, five Chiropterans bound onstage.

"Trap," Saya finishes.

Alarm ripples through the audience. They seem confused over whether this is part of the performance. Then one Chiropteran snarls, pouncing for the singer playing Pinkerton. The man howls as he stumbles, the creature's fangs tearing into his chest. Blood spews. The remaining shrieking actors scramble backward. As the orchestra stops playing, voices rise in a terrified pandemonium.

Aghast, Saya and George stare.

_Chiropterans? Where did they come from?_

Another Chiropterans leaps into the orchestra pit. The impact reverberates in waves of outflung wood and musicians' screams. Saya watches three cellos shatter as if by a gunshot. Blood fountains as the Chiropteran tears the nearest victim's throat.

People begin to scream. Men leaping up, women stumbling over their dresses. Everyone shoving and tripping over each other as they flood out.

"God Almighty—what—what  _are_  those things?" an usher shouts, pointing at the Chiropterans.

In answer, Saya rams her fist into his stomach. The man keels over like a ton of bricks.

"Jesus," George winces. "What was  _that_  for?"

"Panic control," Saya says. "The last thing we need is more—"

She breaks off. The frantic crowd tumbles around her, filling the auditorium with the stench of hysteria. But over their blurred shapes, she still sees the Grand Tier Opera box.

Amshel stands there. A dark totem pole overlooking the melee.

His eyes meet Saya's. And narrow.

Saya fights a chill.

_On no..._

Amshel's cold expression—recognition, comprehension, then kindling wrath—reveals he has no idea why the Chiropterans are here.

Or, more eerily, why  _she_  is.

 _But if_  Amshel  _didn't plan this out, then who—?_

* * *

Contrary to Nathan's teasing, Amshel enjoys the opera.

To him, the attraction lies not in the pathos or aesthetics. It is in the core of opera itself. It amuses him, how humans glorify tragedy for entertainment. They sensationalize the sufferings of fellow beings, milking profit from them in a way that at once boasts of, and denies their importance.

Opera is devoid of empathy—a storytelling sociopath.

It is the art world's perfect truth-seeker.

Seated at the tier box, Amshel wonders how  _Diva_  views opera. Her fascination, he deduces, lies in the surface elements. Colors, movements, sounds. He sees it in how her dancing eyes follow the actors. How her heart quickens with the orchestra's tempo. But sprinkled in between, her subtle observations and cold judgments always throw him off.

His Diva is all fascinating contradictions. Like the cover of glamorous erotica, all voluptuous lips and sultry eyes. But illustrated within is a bloody fairytale, recording human evils with innocent wisdom.

It is but one dimension of Amshel's obsession with her.

Glancing away from the performance, he studies Diva. She looks straight ahead, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her stillness is uncanny. When is his Diva ever still? He takes a moment to study the delicate shaping of her profile, the pale golden edges of her eyelashes where the lights hit them. That beautiful, rosebud mouth hiding its nest of fangs…

But Amshel's fixation is not prurient. Lust is such a  _human_  emotion, after all.

No, Amshel's admiration is far colder. A weaponsmith inspecting a perfectly-forged sword. To him, Diva is the ideal instrument of destruction.

He is reminded, amusingly, of the Greek tale of Pygmalion and Galatea. Of a human sculptor who went mad with worship for a statue he'd made—the embodiment of his perfect mate. Amshel had shaped Diva's insanity the same way. Molded her into a monster beyond his wildest fantasies.

She is his masterpiece.

_All the great men in science were artists, after all._

Except... something about her is strange. She is too quiet tonight. Holding herself too stiffly, too far from him. Usually, she curls by his side like a cat, easy as you please. Purring and eager to endear herself.

"Diva," he says. "Are you enjoying the show? You seem… tense."

She casts him a glance, furtive. Then she smiles. "I'm fine, Amshel."

He puts up a hand to her face, tracing her cheek with his knuckles. Is it his imagination, or does she flinch?

"Perhaps you would like a quick bite to eat? I will tell Nathan to take you backstage. You may choose a meal to your tastes. Just promise not to make a mess."

"It's all right." Again, a prim smile. "I can hold it in."

_Hold it in?_

It is utterly unlike Diva to deny herself. She has no care for nicety or restraint. She simply  _takes_.

Suspicion curls. Keeping it off his face, Amshel strokes her thigh. "Wonderful. The performance will end soon. During the after-party, I will be more than happy to present the  _lirico-spinto_  to you. If there is one flaw in this entire production, it is her voice. It makes me all the more eager for when  _you_  will perform on this stage, Diva. You will dazzle like none other."

She smiles. But her gaze flicks to his hand on her leg. Just quick, but he catches it.

_Curious._

Diva had no concept of inappropriate contact. To her, a touch on the thigh was no different from a kiss on the forehead.

_Or could it be...?_

Amshel's eyes narrow. He does not even consider whether his next move is risky or not. Reaching up, he curls one big hand around her throat. Squeezes until Diva chokes out a frightened, "Ughhh—!"

That noise, more than anything, confirms his suspicions. His Diva—a perfect predator— _never_  shows weakness. The only reason she would do so is—

_It is not Diva._

Amshel's eyes narrow. The pitch of that  _Ughhh_  alone tells him which Chevalier it is. "Explain why you are here, James. And you will merely be flayed within an inch of your life. But if you keep up this charade, I swear—"

Diva— _James_ —winces. Amshel smells the terror emanating off him. Without changing form, he speaks, his gruff voice emerging from Diva's kitten-pink lips, "It was—out of no desire for trouble."

"What then? I fail to believe it was because you wanted to see  _Madame_   _Butterfly_  in person."

James winces again. And Amshel realizes—as in all else, James is not the initiator of this idiocy. He lacks the requisite imagination. Solomon would never persuade him into it, either. The two brothers hate each other. And Karl...It will be a cold day in Hell before Karl organizes anything beyond a tiny slaughter.

No. Such a ludicrous scheme could only be the work of—

"Nathan." Amshel's lip curls. "He put you up to this. Didn't he?"

James' jaw tightens. He nods.

"What is going on here? Where has he taken Diva?"

"To meet her Groom."

" _Haji_? How would Nathan get his hands on Haji? It is impossible to extricate him from Saya's side, without—" He stops.

There is a moment of rushing emptiness, like inside an enormous seashell. And Amshel realizes he hears something.

Distant human screams. The  _crash_  of shattering equipment. And roars.

 _From Chiropterans_ _._

What happens next surprises him very little. Over the course of his life, Amshel has understood a phenomenon called Gambler's Ruin. Scientifically and financially, it has always proven to be true. The term originates from the theory that a gambler will ultimately lose his entire bankroll. It doesn't matter how many lucky streaks he has, or how well he plays. Eventually, the house always wins.

Similarly, in the wake of one disaster, things can only worsen. It is a domino effect. Each action connects to the next, leading to a chain of misfortunes. Every war, every famine and bankruptcy has followed the pattern. There is no such thing as  _isolated incidents_.

This is no different.

Amshel watches as five Chiropterans burst onstage. One lunges at the tenor playing B. F. Pinkerton. The man shrieks, legs flailing comically as the beast devours him. His blood speckles the curtains, the walls.

Pity. He gave a rather good performance.

On cue, hysterical buzzing breaks out among the audience. The gaping actors tumble backward. A second Chiropteran jumps into the orchestra pit. Expensive equipment cracks—along with the musicians' bones. The Chiropteran chomps them apart like an alligator in a bloody swamp.

Pandemonium ensues. The terror-stricken audience spills from their seats, overflowing down the aisles. Amshel sees at least a dozen men and women fall in a swoon. Panic. Noise. Senselessness. A blend of random and predictable—Doyne Farmer's  _Edge of Chaos_  in action.

Beside him, James grimaces. "Damn. What—is going on? These Chiropterans were not part of Nathan's plan."

"Perhaps not Nathan's. But I wager they are part of someone  _else's_." Amshel rises, scanning the crowd. Now that his mind is centered, he can sense other auras nearby. An immediate surge of recognition takes him.

Two  _other_  Chevaliers are in the building.

 _Solomon_  and  _Karl._

But that is not all. Another presence overshadows theirs. Hot and vervy as a sip of  _Chenin Blanc_.

Coldly, Amshel says, "James. When my blood kept firing up the entire evening, it was not because of the performance. Was it?"

Dully, James says, "No."

"I thought so." His eyes narrow further. " _She_  is here, isn't she?"

James nods.

Without shifting a muscle, Amshel views the auditorium. Through his perspective, the room, once golden, is bathed in red. Each shriek, each stench amplified, yet insignificant in its clarity. Just part of the background.

And at the epicenter—brilliant as a star—he sees:

"In a red dress." Amshel smiles thinly. "How droll."

Across the room, Saya's eyes meet his. She blanches, her lips soundlessly forming his name. He can practically see the thoughts floating above her head, like a word balloon from a newspaper cartoon.

Dismay. Fear.

Her pulse quickens—a melody performed  _altissimo_.

_Wonderful._

"It was Nathan's idea to place her there." James sounds like a sulky child. "I told him it was unwise. But he—"

"On the contrary. Nathan could not have chosen a more suitable course of action."

James looks uneasy, "What do you mean?"

"As they say, James: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer." Amshel lets his eyes glow red. Revels in the stricken look on Saya's silly little face. "At least now, the performance becomes  _interesting_."

* * *

Haji is stupefied by how total terror can feel.

Stupefied by how, despite all the shocks of tonight, one after the other, he can bring himself not to vomit. Not to scream. Stupefied too, at how he can be chained to this chair, unable to move, yet at the same time be a weightless body hovering at the ceiling. Hearing his own voice chant, in the confines of his mind:

_This cannot be happening._

_This cannot be_  happening _._

A small hand touches his cheek. He jerks.

Diva stands before him. Her mouth gleams, apple-dark. "Don't be scared. Saya can have you back soon. I just want to play with you. After all, we are sisters. It's only fair that we share."

"That's  _right_ ," her Chevalier titters. "And she  _promises_  not to break you. Don't you, Diva?"

"Cross my heart and never hope to die." She trails a nail along Haji's cheek. "Oh, I  _do_  like him. He's all moonrays and cherries. Black and white and red and blue. He'll give me such pretty babies."

_Babies...?_

Loathing rises. Haji wrenches away.

Diva giggles. "And  _stubborn_  too. He really is perfect for Sister Saya."

Her name, desecrated by those filthy lips, makes him  _boil_. He twists against his restraints.

"There there." Diva smoothes her hands across his bloodsoaked shirt. The touch resonates eerily through Haji. His body feels strange, each sensation reverberating across the surface of his skin. What drug did that Chevalier  _give_  him?

"Don't—" he starts to say. But Diva is already undoing his shirt buttons. She glances up at him, eyes full of mischief. " 'Don't' what? Don't stop? But I haven't even  _started_."

Freeing his shirt from his waistband, she pushes the bloody material down his arms. Runs her hands over the lines of his chest, his slightly hollow belly. Haji feels his skin break out in gooseflesh. Revulsion? Or something worse?

"Marzipan and vanilla," Diva says, almost to herself. She dips a hot tongue into the hollow of his neck. Licks a wet swirly line down his chest. Her face softens, contemplative. "But salty instead of  _sweet_."

Haji tries to twist away. Her saliva tightens across his skin, drying there. Giggling, she undoes the clasp of his belt, leaving the leather ends dangling. Tugs his waistband upward. She peeks inside, all twinkly-eyed, like a girl with a brand new toy.

Suddenly, Haji regrets his habit of  _Going Commando_  during missions. One less bloodstained layer to clean off afterward is now, abominably, one less layer separating him from  _Diva_.

"I see a slippery, slithery snake," she sings. "Sliding through the grasses, making them shake. He looks at me with his beady eye. Come play in my garden, say I..." Her laughter runs like spilling poison. She licks her palm, slow as a handful of sugar. Reaches for him.

Haji jerks back. The chair legs scrape shrilly across the marble floor. The backrest  _clacks_  against the wall behind him.

He is trapped. But—for now—beyond her reach.

"Aw," Diva pouts. "He's chilling up already. You said he'd be warm, Nathan. Like melting taffy. You said he'd be lonely for a playmate, because Sister Saya  _never_  played with him."

Nathan smiles indulgently. "His type needs  _coaxing_ , Diva. But once he warms up, I'd bet my left nut he's the biting, spanking, hair-pulling type. But why not—um—shrug into something more  _comfortable_ first?"

Diva smiles like a moonrise. And, in a fluid movement, slips her robe off. The material  _whooshes_  in a silk puddle to the floor. She has nothing on beneath. In the lamplight, her body glows, seraph pale. All delicate lines and sinuous curves. Black hair flowing like ink. Nipples the same bruised rose as her mouth.

But that is not what unnerves Haji.

_God._

_She looks just like—_

His mind jangles in outrage. Condemning him for the unholy thoughts—a stream of  _vile_ and _untrue_  and  _impossible_.

This bloodthirsty succubus could  _never_  be Saya.

Especially not her eyes. So blue, yet so empty. They remind him of a line from Hans Christian Anderson's  _The Snow Queen_ :

_'She was alive and her eyes sparkled like bright stars, but there was neither peace nor rest in their glance...'_

Diva watches him intently. He realizes something of his conflict shows on his face. Her smile deepens. "Am I pretty?"

Nathan snorts. "Understatement of the  _century_."

Hands on hips, Diva chides, "I wasn't asking  _you_ , Nathan!"

"Oh,  _sorry_!" He mimes zipping his lips shut.

Diva frowns prettily. "You know, you're  _really_  spoiling the mood. Maybe you should wait outside." She offers Haji a coquettish look. "I think Sister Saya's Chevalier might be... shy."

Nathan shakes his head. "Sorry, my precious one. We haven't much time, as it is. The First Act will  _end_  soon, and you should be back in your seat by then. Amshel might grow suspicious."

Diva stamps her foot. The action has interesting effects on certain parts of her anatomy. "But I want to  _play_!"

"Well, skip the preliminaries. Unromantic as it sounds, you've got eighteen minutes, tops. Hurry up and fuck."

Arms crossed, Diva huffs, " _Fine_." Then, her frown melts to a smile. She sidles closer, shining its full beam on Haji. "What do you say, Haji? Should we do as Nathan asks? Or should we go at  _my_  pace? Which would you like?"

He would  _like_  to be out of this room. As far from  _her_  as possible.

"Won't you say anything?" Diva lowers her mouth to his ear. "I know you can talk. You spoke to Nathan earlier. And I've heard how you speak to Sister Saya. Like strawberries and chocolate." Giggling, she nips his earlobe. "I want to hear you speak that way to me. I want to hear how you sound..." Her hand flutters along his thigh. "...when you can't help yourself."

Haji's reaction is instant. He recoils—so violently the chair nearly tips sideways.

Startled, Diva blinks. Then she laughs, breathy and teasing. "You want to be cut loose? Is that it? I can do that for you. Just promise you'll touch nothing but  _me_."

_Touch you?_

He would rather chop his own hands off.

Except her fingers are still stroking his thigh. Climbing higher, to where the material is stretched taut at the zipper. The contact goes through him like a sickening tide of vertigo. He imagines hundreds of bacterium spreading from her hand. Contaminating him. He wants to kick out, shrink away. Prove to her and to himself that he can control his own body.

But all he feels is the erratic  _thud_  of his own heartbeat.

Something is radiating from Diva's touch. The obscene pleasure of it spreads through him the same way, saturating his bones, his very mind.

Horrified, he shakes his head.

_What's happening?_

He feels like a stranger in his own skin. An image springs to mind, of a fly dashing itself repeatedly against the glass. That infernal buzzing, crowding through his mind, absorbing every ounce of sanity.

Making him want to  _burst_.

 _What_  is  _this?_

It is nothing like the pale shades of curiosity he'd felt for that woman in Red Shield. Nothing like the blissful delirium of worship and tenderness he feels for  _Saya_.

This... is lust. Mindless and barbaric. And with it: a discovery. It erases something within him. He doesn't care on any level for Diva. Her excitement, coming off her in hot waves, stirs no emotion. All it does is sharpen his hunger. Make him want to bite and maul and rut. Force her to the floor. Make her throw her head back and  _scream_.

He bites his lip. Shame spreading through him like a dark cloud, bringing with it a sneering excoriation:

_This is what you deserve._

_You betrayed Saya for a woman who resembled her._

_So you deserve to be defiled by one who looks_  exactly  _like her._

"What's wrong, Haji?" Diva touches his lips.

Haji pulls away. But he can still feel the marks of her fingers. He imagines them to be luminous and green. Radioactive scars.

"What is it? Don't you like me?" Childlike yet seductive, Diva cups her breasts in both hands. Pushes them together as if offering them to him. Haji finds his gaze drawn to how her fingers pinch the tiny pink nipples. She coos, eyes slipping shut. "This feels good. Want to touch me like this? Just say  _Yes_. And I'll let you do anything you want." She giggles. "I'll even let you do things Sister Saya  _never_  let you."

Through the disorienting fugue, the name is a wake-up call.

Suddenly, Saya's face looms in. Imbuing him in a hailstorm of emotions, so intense that they blot out everything else. Her grief. Her suffering. The largeness of her disappointment, when he'd told her about his error in Berlin. Imagining it magnified tenfold, if she sees him now.

Touching Diva— _looking_  at her—goes beyond disloyalty.

It is  _evil_.

He struggles harder. But to his dismay, Diva slides into his lap. Face to face. Legs on either side. A seductive simmering weight.

"What's wrong? Are the bitemarks in your head bleeding?" She combs his hair back in both hands. With an overtone, far more palpable than her delicate touch, of violence. "Want me to kiss the booboos and make them better? I promise, you'll forget  _all_  about who put them there. Forget all about Saya..."

Against his will, he says, " _Be quiet_."

Diva's eyes and lips form little 'O's. Then she smiles. "What? You don't like words wrapped in flowers? Do you want thorns instead? Is that how Sister Saya talks with you?  _Baise moi comme un animal, Haji_. Is that what she says?"

You  _are the animal. A filthy monster._

But Diva is rocking in his lap. Languid. Dancelike. The friction spreads through him in the most reprehensible way. Head swimming as all the blood in his body rushes to his groin. Her lips graze his neck. Lick that oversensitive spot right beneath his ear. He shudders, trying to pull away.

He has always hated anyone touching his neck. That area is  _Saya's_  territory.

Wildly, he goes over every possible turn-off. Women who reek of cigarettes and stale perfume. Skins caked in make-up. Pockmarks. Warts. Scummy teeth.

Except Diva feels like none of those things. In scent or touch.

"Haji?" She takes his face in both hands. Her eyes are alit bluish selenium. "I feel what's happening to you. It's the same for me, too. My skin feels tight. All the blood inside singing different tunes. Except in one voice. For  _you_."

Her words are a jigsaw. But with lucid fragments scattered through them. And that face: so perfect and moonlike. Just like  _Saya's_.

He realizes, if not for circumstance, this creature might've easily  _been_  Saya. An unworthy thought enters: if it  _was_ Saya, instead of Diva, who'd been locked in the tower, then at least he would have her with him right now. But that idea is immediately supplanted by another: could he stand to see Saya as twisted as Diva is?

_No… Never._

"Aw," says Diva. "Come on. Let's have some nice kisses?" Her lips brush his. Cool and ethereal, but waking something shamefully hot in his blood. Her tongue probes the seam of his lips—a touch that is also a whisper. "Doesn't this feel as nice as Sister Saya's kisses?"

Horrifically, it does.

 _It's all in my head,_  Haji thinks fiercely.  _Because they look the same. Because they share the same blood._

Except one Queen's blood had created him. And this Queen's blood can extinguish him.

A dark resolve takes over.

He does not understand this terrible power Diva has on him. But if he gives in, he will be no better than her. A bloodthirsty monster.

The one thing Saya would never want him to be—alive or dead.

_Saya._

_Please forgive me._

Eyes closed, he opens his mouth against Diva's. Her giggle is almost like triumph. Her tongue slips in, wet, teasing. He tastes her mad little smile.

Drawing back, she glances at Nathan, "You were right. He  _is_  all sugar and spice. Absolutely delicious."

Nathan bursts out cackling. Purring, Diva presses for another kiss.

And  _screams_.

Haji has sunk his fangs into her lip. Blood spurts, treacle-sweet. He starts to swallow. Then suddenly, Diva is yanked away. He feels a sharp finger jab down his throat.

Red dots explode in his eyes. Nausea swoops.

Retching, Haji throws up a spray of blood and phlegm across the carpet.

"Tsk tsk." Nathan withdraws his glistening fingers from Haji's mouth. Saliva and threads of Diva's blood drip off them. "I never  _imagined_  our puppy could be such a  _junkyard dog_."

Haji coughs up the last dregs of spittle.

Sighing, Nathan smoothes the matted hair from his forehead. And  _slaps_  him across the face. Haji's head lashes sideways from the impact.

" _That_  was for impertinence. Didn't your Queen teach you any manners?"

Sullen, Diva peers over Nathan's shoulder. "He's a  _rude_  Chevalier."

Haji calls her something unfit for print.

Nathan smirks. "Oh  _my_. You kiss your holier-than-thou  _Queen_  with that mouth? Well, candyass, sticks and stones may break our bones. But  _bitching_  will never..." He falters. "...hurt us?"

Diva glances at him. "What is it?"

He doesn't answer. A myriad of expressions crosses his face. He reminds Haji of how people look when someone is yelling at them over the phone. Except no-one is there.

Haji stares a moment, then understands.

 _Someone_  is  _yelling at him._

_In his head._

_"Nathan."_  Diva presses. "What's wrong? You look like Karl when he was losing his virginit—" She breaks off on a cry. Her hands fly to her mouth. The eyes above: enormous, terrorstruck. For a moment, she looks so much like Saya, when she first saw Haji's wings, it is surreal.

Sighing, Nathan touches her shoulder. He seems to know what is wrong with her. "Diva? My precious one. Don't worry. Just because Amshel's found out, doesn't mean—"

Arms flailing, Diva bats him off. "NO!  _Nonononono_! This  _wasn't_  what you  _promised_!"

"True. But no plan is foolproof. Besides, if Saya attacks Amshel, we can use Haji as hostage. There won't have to be a huge altercation. You may still get your babies—"

"I  _won't_! Can't you  _see_?" Diva's face is wild. Where she was once blooming with rosy allure, now all the color drains from her. A wilted flower. "It's  _my_  wish but not  _Amshel's_ , so it can't be  _mine_! Not  _yet_! He  _told_  me so! And now he's  _angry_! I  _can't_  let him be angry with me! You  _know_  this! That's why you swore it would be a  _secret_!"

"I  _do_  know." Nathan sounds patient but weary. "But Diva. Amshel's wish is not  _yours_. It is the other way around. If you let him rule you out of fear, our family will break. And I  _know_  you'd hate that."

"It's the  _family_  who's broken the plan!"

"What? What do you mean?"

"Karl. And Solomon." Diva isn't whipped into a frenzy anymore. She is dreamily smiling. The transition is eerie. "They've come to the ball too. And they've brought so many mice with them. They'll fill the opera new shades of music. Sister Saya and Amshel can't touch each other through them. Eyes and words can slice like knives. But you'll never see the blood."

" _Karl and Solomon_?" Nathan sounds confused. "What do  _they_  have to do with this?"

Diva doesn't answer. Only starts, like an unspooling roll of silk, to sing.

* * *

 


	33. Passepied

**CW: Non-consensual situations/Attempted rape/violence/gore**

* * *

**Passepied:**  A French baroque dance

* * *

The Met's back-door swings open with a  _crash._

David lunges down the corridor. He hears the  _whoosh_  of movement behind him. The two Chevaliers are close. He senses their footfalls, hears the darkhaired one's laughter.

Twisting, he extends his Mauser. A volley of shots echoes off the wide backstage walls. Concrete chunks fly. David doesn't wait to see if he's hit his targets. He knows bullets never slow Chiropterans down.

Especially  _Chevaliers_.

Boots skidding across the floor, David turns a corner. No stage-hands are in sight, but two ushers freeze in wide-eyed shock. David notices that one of them is bleeding heavily from the forehead. He wonders why, even as he shouts, "Clear the area, fuck it!  _Get outta here_!"

The men don't need to be told twice. They bolt for the exit, while David lunges down another corridor. Behind him, the footsteps keep thudding—the Chevaliers are close.

Adrenaline spurts. Teeth clenched, David runs faster.

He has to get beyond their reach. Has to find  _Saya_. Those caged Chiropterans have already been set loose. If they enter the auditorium, they'll leave casualties. And Red Shield's cover will be blown. No way in hell they'll be able to explain this to the city government.

_Come on. You can make it._

Behind him, one Chevalier calls, "Run! Run! Run! But you won't go far!"

Between gasps, David yells back, "Bite me, hemo-gobbler!"

"With pleasure!" The voice is impossibly close.

Sprinting harder, David scrambles to a door at the end. He yanks it open, right in time for some poor bastard on the other side to fall face-down at his feet. Before David can react, the man screams hysterically. Half-scurrying, he shoots up and takes off down the corridor. David notices that his clothes are also bloodied.

_What the hell is going on?_

Then, running down the corridor, he hears it.

Wild screams. Ugly roars. The  _furor_  of a world gone crazy.

_Oh Christ._

_Don't tell me..._

Kicking open the last door, David enters the lobby. What was once a glitzy playground—all smooth floors and plush carpets—is now Alice's Wonderland. If Alice was a psychotic axe-murderer. Limbs and entrails litter the floor. Curtains have been torn from rods. Walls are sprayed in blood and feces. And everywhere: people are running and howling. Chiropterans—he counts at least five— pick their prey.

Before David's eyes, one roaring beast pounces at a pot-bellied old man. His dying screams, the smell of his shredding viscera, are sickening. Over the balagan, gunfire echoes. He sees Red Shield agents attempting to contain the crisis. Blood and flesh—from bullets and fangs—fly in all directions.

"Oh fuck," David says. "Whose idea  _was_  it to let these things loose?"

"Well, you must admit. It  _is_  amusing."

The voice is right against his ear. David's eyes widen. The darkhaired Chevalier is beside him. David can actually see all the hazel striations in his wild eyes. His expression is like a mischievous child's. A crazy thought occurs— _this guy was just a_  kid  _when Diva turned him_.

Then the Chevalier's hand shoots out. David gags as it slams against his throat. Locked in a choke, he finds himself pressed against the wall.

The Chevalier's eyes glow with perverse pleasure. "Now. About that remark of yours. What was it? Oh yes.  _Bite me_."

Teeth bared, he prepares to do just that.

David presses his gun, barrel-end first, against the Chevalier's groin. And fires.

His victim makes more of a squeak than a shout. His face contorts into a grimace. Letting David go, he crumples to the floor, clutching the mess at his privates. The moment is all David needs to leap free—

Another hand grabs his collar. David whirls to see the suited-up blond man.

"Now," he says. "That wasn't very nice."

In an eyeblink, he digs his fangs savagely into David's throat. Pain shockwaves through David's whole body. His mouth opens in a  _howl_. Dimly, over the blond's head, he sees a flash of red in the crowd. A girl in a wine-colored dress. Armed with a shank, she is fighting off a Chiropteran.

David opens his mouth. What emerges isn't a cry, but a name:

" _Saya_!"

* * *

Saya tosses a  _shiv_  at the charging Chiropteran. In a viscous spurt, the blade digs into its eye. The Chiropteran  _roars_. Ducking beneath its slashing claws, Saya whips out another  _shiv_  strapped to her upper-thigh. She squeezes the edge so her own blood slicks the metal.

And, on a grunt, digs it deep into the creature's belly.

The Chiropteran arches grotesquely. Cracks branch like poison ivy across its flesh. It tumbles down.

Catching her breath, Saya straightens. People are running around her, so tight-packed everything is a blur. But she can hear, over their screams, the sound of gunshots. Red Shield's operatives are interspersed through the area. Taking down Chiropterans.

The only person missing is—

_Haji._

_Where is he?_

"Saya!"

Hearing her name, she whirls. Hope, disappointment, and shock flare one by one.

_David._

Through the crowd, she sees him. Pinned to a wall by a man in a white suit. For a split-second, she thinks the man has passed out. His face is buried in David's shoulder. Then she sees David's contorted expression, and understands

_That isn't a man. It's a Chiropteran._

_And he's_ biting _him._

Racing forward, Saya yanks the lily  _kansashi_  from her updo. Her long hair tumbles around her face as she leaps at the Chevalier. Hair-pin gripped in both hands, she brings it dagger-style down on his back. There is a liquid  _squelch_  of metal rending flesh. Howling, the man tears away from David. His backhanded blow barely misses Saya's head.

Behind him, David slumps to his knees. Blood stains his shirt. His eyes are glazed with pain. And his attacker—

"Bad move, ducky." The man's voice is disturbingly serene. His bloodsmeared face has half-deformed into a lupine snout, golden hair tangled like a horse's mane. But his fangs are a brilliant white; an inverse to his glowing red eyes.

Saya realizes:  _He thinks I'm just a human woman._

_He doesn't know who I am._

The hair-pin is still lodged in the Chevalier's back. Reaching an arm around, he pulls it free. Examines it with an amused chuckle.

"Well well. I thought I'd seen everything."

In a blur, he lunges at Saya with the hair-pin.

Reflexively, Saya smacks his weapon-arm away and plows the heel of her palm into his face. Cartilage shatters. The man's half-formed snout gushes blood. The blow is intense enough to send him reeling back, blinking in dazed pain, "Ah, god!"

Taking the advantage, Saya delivers a series of crippling blows—groin, stomach, ribs, jaw.

The man groans, tumbling down.

Saya glowers at him. "Idiot."

Stepping over his body, she hurries to David. Her comrade is breathing heavily, one hand pressed to the wound on his neck. He gives her a tight smile. "Wanted—to warn you about the Chiropterans. But you already got—everything under control."

Saya helps him up. "This whole evening's a trap. Where've you been?"

"Got attacked—by a Chevalier—" David's eyebrows are drawn together. Saya realizes the wound in his neck is too deep. The fangs haven't hit his jugular, but he will need stitches. "I woke up—outside the building."

"Was Haji with you?"

David frowns. "Haven't—seen Haji since you were in the Tier restaurant."

" _What_?" Her heart skips a beat. "Before the performance, George said you needed him backstage."

"I never—" David breaks off as realization strikes. His expression is a mirror of Saya's own.

_Oh God. Another trap._

"This is bad," Saya says. "We need to find—"

Something enormous  _rams_  into her.

Breath escapes Saya on a " _Nggghh_!" Knocked off her feet, she lands flat on her back. A Chiropteran—lured by her scent—pins her to the floor. Saya chokes as one enormous claw presses against her throat, cutting off her air. The creature looms over her—all fetid breath and bloodstained fangs.

Struggling, Saya digs her knees into its belly. The Chiropteran snarls, and she seizes the chance to leap free. Growling, her opponent hunches on all fours. Ready to pounce.

"David!" Saya's voice vibrates over the footfalls and screams. " _Sword_!"

She registers David's movements from the corner of her eye. The unsheathed katana flies at her like a javelin. At the same time, the Chiropteran leaps in a high, gravity-defying bound. In the split-second before Saya grabs her weapon, the creature seems frozen in midair—a terrifying moment both transient and timeless.

Then her fingers close on the hilt. The blade whistles in a wide arc through the air. Her eyes blaze red and her mouth opens in a guttural battlecry.

 _"Kyaaaaaaaaa_!"

There is a sickening  _crunch_  of steel tearing through muscle. In a sweeping diagonal cut, Saya dismembers the Chiropteran's torso. Blood fountains everywhere. Eyeblink-fast, the beast crystallizes.

Over her fallen opponent, Saya glimpses two familiar figures. Amshel and the  _faux_ -Diva. Weaving through the panicked crowd, they head for one of the Met's backstage doors.

Saya's eyes narrow.

_If anyone knows where Haji is, it's them._

David follows her gaze. "Saya," he warns. "Don't go after them. The situation's out of control already. You can't just-"

But Saya has already taken off. Spotting George in the melee, she motions behind her. "Take care of David!"

"Wh-where're you going?" George shouts back.

Saya doesn't answer. She just disappears down the corridor.

* * *

_Childish fools._

Amshel marches swiftly through the passages, James in tow. His opportunity to span out connections tonight, broaden Goldsmith Holdings influence, has come to a standstill. All so Solomon and Karl could thwart James from winning an idiotic  _contest_. And all so that  _Nathan_ , in the meantime, could do what Amshel specified was not the right time for.

_They will pay for this. Every single one of them._

He looks forward to when his ultimate plan will come to fruition. Once it does, he can eliminate all the obstacles in his way.  _Including_  his younger brothers.

_At least then, Diva will be mine again._

"Oh!  _There_  you are!"

Amshel halts mid-stride. He and James turn.

Nathan and Diva emerge from a corner. They look no different from any of the opera-goers. Nathan: in a smart gray pinstripe suit. Diva: in a glittering rhinestone choker, mink coat and high-heels. On his shoulder, Nathan supports a half-conscious man.

Amshel represses a scowl. Have they been at the Met all this time?

"Amshel!" Delightedly, Diva skips upto him. But her eagerness is transparent. She can sense his anger, and is trying to soften it. "Have you seen my Sister Saya? I can feel her blood buzzing everywhere. Red wasps and chainsaws. I want to meet her!"

"Perhaps at a more opportune time, Diva," Amshel says coolly. Looking past her, he adds, to Nathan, "At the moment, some of us have a great deal of  _explaining_  to do."

Nathan's smile is careless and deadly. "Perhaps at a more  _opportune_  time, Amshel. Right now, I have someone you'll  _love_ to meet."

_What?_

Amshel glances at the semi-reeling man in Nathan's grasp. For a moment he is confused. That looks like some bloodstained wretch picked off the street. Then he realizes who it is.

"Haji."

The word is a sneer. Amshel takes in that wan gaunt face, the unkempt rat-tails of hair. Pathetic. The Chevalier was clearly drugged with one of Nathan's herbal concoctions. Had he fed properly, of course, the mixture would've been out of his system by now. But, as always, Haji has denied his true nature.

 _Contemptible_.

_Pretending to be human to please Saya. Repressing his instincts like her toothless pet._

Hard to believe this weakling is intended as Diva's Groom. Lesser men are far worthier of the term.

In a voice so soft only Amshel hears, Diva says, "He's a rude Chevalier. He wouldn't play with me."

Amshel's eyes narrow.  _So the mating was unsuccessful_.

Subtle relief flares. Despite the scientific curiosity of Diva's pregnancy, he hates the idea of sharing her with anyone. Sometimes he still longs for the days in Bordeaux, when she was locked in her tower. His alone.

"I thought we'd take Haji home with us," Nathan says blithely. "Seems a pity to pass up this chance at impregnation. If at first we don't succeed, we can try and try and try again."

Amshel masks his distaste. "The choice is Diva's."

Tugging his arm, Diva smiles. It is a plea. "I  _do_  want my babies, Amshel. Can I have them now? Please?"

" _Of course_ , my girl," Nathan interrupts. But his sharp eyes are on Amshel. " _No one_  would dream of stopping you."

"Actually," a voice says. "That's not completely true."

The group spins around. Saya, sword-in-hand, stands behind them. Her eyes are murderous red.

Amshel finds himself smiling. "Saya. How wonderful of you to join us."

"Sister!" Diva claps happily. "I've been waiting to see you! I thought you'd forgotten me!"

"Far from it." In contrast to Diva's vibrant allure, Saya's expression is cold and forbidding.

So different from his Diva, Amshel muses. Yet that very difference piques his Chevalier's blood—an elemental craving. Beside him, James tenses. Doubtless, he feels the powerful presence of the Other Queen too. And in Nathan's grasp, Haji stirs. Lifting his head, a child drawn to its mother's voice, he whispers, "Saya..."

Saya's eyes widen. "Haji!"

"Bravo," Nathan simpers. "The two lovers. Reunited again."

Saya unleashes a snarl. Sword upraised, she charges at Nathan. Her blade sweeps in a silver helix through the air. Nathan evades—lightning-fast. But in his grasp, Haji is struggling. Obviously regaining consciousness.

Amshel's eyes narrow.

_So much the better._

After a split-second's calculation, Amshel flashes toward Nathan. Their two forms converge like brilliant comets. Nathan's eyes widen as Amshel snatches Haji away. Lifting the body above his head, a human sacrifice, he throws him— _hard_ —at Saya.

Chevalier and Queen sprawl to the floor.

"Amshel!" Nathan's eyes spark dangerously. " _That_  is playing  _dirty_."

_I know. It is the only way to win._

Impassive, Amshel orders, "Escort Diva out of here. And take James with you.  _I_  will deal with Saya."

With that, he vanishes.

* * *

Winded, Saya extricates herself from Haji's weight.

Her Chevalier is a starved-looking pale. His limbs feel almost boneless. She wonders wildly what Diva's done to him.

"Haji?" She rolls him onto his back. His shirt is crusted with dried blood. There is a large rip in the center, where something must have stabbed him. But she sees no wound. Then Haji's eyes flicker open, showing the whites. It takes a moment for him to focus on her.

"Saya..." he whispers.

Relief is overpowering. "Haji. Are you all right?"

He nods weakly. Tries to sit up. But his muscles are uncoordinated. Wobbly as a newborn fawn, he slumps back.

"Wh-what's wrong?" she asks. "Did they give you something?"

"Sedative." His eyebrows are drawn together. "It—will wear off soon."

"Are you sure?" His dull gaze is disquieting. She wonders what kind of perversity Diva subjected him to. "Haji—we should get you out of here. Red Shield's medics will know what to—"

"There is no reason to worry," a voice says. "He will recover soon"

She turns. Amshel stands behind her. For a moment, deja vu overlaps the scene. She remembers that night at the Zoo. When Haji was being whipped in the basement, and Amshel stopped her from helping him. The memory is quickly replaced by another. The eve of Joel's birthday, when she arrived to find the mansion burning. Diva and Amshel in the forefront—two sadistic angels of Death.

In a scalding rush, the memory calls up all her hatred. If Diva was the destructive force in her life—this man has done everything to aid her cause.

Letting Haji's hand drop, Saya rises. Her eyes narrow, filigreed in red.

"Saya." Amshel's own gaze is a basilisk's. "Pardon the impertinence. But you do look beautiful tonight."

* * *

"What about my  _babies_?"

Nathan, James and Diva hurry from Lincoln Center. In the distance, frightened guests stream from the Metropolitan Opera House. There is the  _whoop_  of ambulances, and flashing police lights.

Diva tugs Nathan's arm, disconsolate. "I want my babies, Nathan! I want them  _now_!"

Nathan sighs. "I'm sorry, Diva dear. But it's  _pandemonium_  in there."

"I don't care!" Diva stomps her foot. "You  _promised_  I would get my wish!"

"I'm sorry, my precious one. Now isn't a good time."

"This whole  _plan_  was a waste of time," James snaps. "I should have known not to listen to you!"

Nathan rolls his eyes. "None of this would've happened, if you'd done as I  _said_. Didn't I tell you to act as  _Diva_  as possible?"

"Damn you, Nathan! It doesn't matter  _how_  I acted. Amshel could  _tell_  I wasn't her." James is still in Diva's form. But with his slitted eyes and curled lips, the effect is more kittenish than indignant. "I told you the evening would end a disaster. And I was  _right_."

"Only because you refused to  _loosen up_! Hell, you acted like such a  _Miss Priss_ the whole night, it's no wonder Amshel recognized you!" Sighing, Nathan rubs his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. "Ooohhh! I  _knew_  I should've picked someone else! Like  _Solomon_. Or maybe  _Karl_! That boy could teach  _feral_  to  _rabid dogs_!" His eyes narrow. " _Speaking_  of Solomon and Karl..."

James frowns. "What is it?"

Nathan raises a silencing hand. His eyes scan the surrounding area…

… Stopping at an alleyway ahead.

Sauntering in, Nathan calls, "Yoohoo?"

Silence.

"Come out, fellas. I  _know_  you're here."

No answer. Then, a fire-escape ladder creaks. With gingerly rustlings, two figures lurch from the shadows. Solomon and Karl. Both are bedraggled and bloody, eyes showing too much white, like spooked animals.

"Oh," Solomon says. "It's just you, Nathan. I thought brother Amshel had found us." Chuckling, he shakes his head. "After this stunt, he'll be after our blood for certain."

James glowers. "It is what you  _deserve_  for setting those Chiropterans loose."

Solomon crooks a brow. "What makes you so sure it was  _us_?"

" _Sure_? I do not need to be  _sure_!  _You_  have access to the labs holding those things!  _You_  are the one who prefers mindless animals to do the job for him! Who else could it  _be_  but you! "

Solomon offers a cool smile. "One preposterous plan deserves another, James. Or...Wait. Dressing up as Diva wasn't  _your_  plan, was it? How could it be? Far too originative."

James eyes flash. Another time, he'd let the flippancy pass. But he is at the end of his rope tonight.

Growing, he lunges for Solomon. The two Chevaliers collide like canon-balls. Even before Solomon hits the floor, James is swinging at him, his fists a crippling fury. All he wants is to get a few good blows in. Smash up that pretty face Diva adores so much.

Then Solomon jabs out with something. An Oriental hair-pin. James sees a red lily sparkling on the bridge. Then the sharp point pierces his chest, and scalding pain swallows up everything, making him  _snarl_.

Digging a knee into his belly, Solomon shoves him off. James falls back with a  _thud_. Hot bloods streams from the puncture-wound. A beat later, it closes up.

Smirking, Solomon rises. The hair-pin glistens like a red icicle in his grip. "Convenient little thing, isn't it? I'm going to practice making my arm into a long blade. Just like this. What do you think, James?"

James glowers, but makes no answer. Beside him, Nathan whistles. "Where'd you get that thingamajig, Solomon? I haven't seen the likes of it in  _years_."

"I got it from a feisty little filly in the Met."

Karl chuckles nastily. "Right after she drubbed him with four strategic blows."

Solomon casts Karl a withering look. "I would thank the gentleman with the  _mess_  in his pants not to drop insults so freely. I might be tempted to kick you where it hurts."

"Boy, boys,  _boys_." Nathan claps his hands. "Enough bickering. What will  _Diva_  think?"

"Diva?" Alarmed, James looks around. "Wh-where is she?"

Solomon and Karl stiffen. "I-I can't feel her anywhere," Karl stammers. "Where did she go—?"

Understanding dawns. As one, the Chevaliers face the Met. Diva's scent trails after it—a colorful Pied Piper's tune.

"Oh," Nathan says. " _Shit_."

* * *

Amshel and Saya circle each other slowly.

It is like dancing a  _passepied._ No joined hands. No closeness. Only their eyes hold one another—slicing and freezing in turn.

"As I remember, Joel never approved of you wearing red," Amshel remarks. "He always considered it—how did he put it?—a 'brazen' color. No. He preferred you in pastel shades. Pink. Lavender. Cream. It's almost a pitiful embodiment of what he wanted you to be. A pale imitation of a true Chiropteran. An ersatz being."

Saya ignores the taunt. Her blood still fizzles to Diva's presence. Her twin is here, somewhere in the building. All she has to do is find her. Closer by, she hears screams and gunfire from the auditorium. Red Shield's agents are still combating the three surviving Chiropterans. She hopes they can take them down before too many casualties.

A darker thought occurs:

_None of this would've happened if I'd been smarter._

_If I'd realized this was a trap, I could've warned Red Shield._

Amshel smiles thinly at her distraction. "Still torn between choices, aren't you? Still unable to give anything you one-hundred percent. That is where you differ entirely from Diva. She knows what she wants the moment she sees it. And does everything possible to make it  _hers_."

Saya's lips contort. "She's a monster in a child's body. She doesn't deserve to live."

"Whereas you, a monster masquerading as a human,  _do_?" Amshel's amused tone hardens. "You still have the delusions of an infant, Saya. But your blood is a Chiropteran's. Like Diva's. Like mine. Instead of teetering at the fringe, you should take your place in the center. With us. This world functions on one goal alone. The acquisition of power. Those humans you suffer for—they will give you nothing in return. They are little cogs. Once their purpose ends, so do they. Surely you have realized that by now."

Saya ignores a voice—seductive, traitorous—that whispers:

 _You_ have _realized it. That's why your duty has gotten so difficult._

 _That's why you're so eager to give up now_.

Shaking it off, she says, "I'd prefer those so-called  _cogs_  to creatures like  _you_."

"Me?" Impassive, Amshel touches his chest. "My hands are no less bloodied than  _yours_. You have killed humans on questionable motives too. By accident. For preventive measures. It is what Joel used to call _realpolitik_ , I believe?"

Saya freezes. She remembers that mission in London. All those operatives she'd been forced to butcher. And she hears too, Haji's voice:

 _'It is what Joel used to call realpolitik, Saya. Sacrifices have to be made to ensure the greater good. To fulfill one's duty._ '

Abruptly, she shakes her head. "You're wrong. I  _never_  killed for the same reasons as you. If I did, it was only out of—"

"Out of what? Duty? Pure ideals?" Amshel's voice is mocking. "Does that make it any cleaner? Will it make those humans any less dead?"

" _Shut up_!" She slashes at Amshel with her sword. He dodges effortlessly.

"You should accept what you already know," he says. "You are no different from us. You are a Chiropteran. And eventually, if not by your own will, than  _against_  it, you will succumb to instinct. It is only a matter of time."

" _No_." Her blood seethes with fury. She charges at Amshel. Again, he evades, his fist slamming into her jaw. The powerful blow sends Saya pirouetting off-balance. Catching herself, she whirls, fending off Amshel's second barrage of blows with her weapon.

"Careless. Very careless." Breaking through her defenses, Amshel sends her flying with a backhanded blow.

Saya collides sideways against a wall. The impact leaves a cracked web in the concrete. Groaning, she slumps to her knees, sword still loosely clutched. Blood trickles from her mouth.

Amshel looms over her, disdainful. "A pity, Saya. This is another way you differ from my Diva. She  _never_  hesitates. If you were the same, you could have defeated our cause decades ago."

Saya swipes her bloody mouth with her sleeve. Her eyes blaze red. "There is no time like the present."

And, on a savage outcry, lunges at Amshel—sword-first.

* * *

Haji hears Amshel and Saya battling somewhere.

Teeth clenched, he grips the adjacent wall. Raises himself, one inch at a time, to his feet. His muscles spasm. He feels much like how Saya must, whenever she re-emerges from her hibernations.

_It is only a drug. It will wear off soon._

Swaying, he leans against the wall. Everything seems to ripple at the edges, as if underwater. He struggles to focus.

"Hello again."

The familiar voice jolts him wide-awake.

Diva is there. In a glittery choker, fur-coat and heels. And, as Haji knows, nothing else.

Coyly, she finesses a strand of her hair. "Sister Saya and Amshel are having a private moment. So why don't we finish ours? Nathan's gone too. You don't have to be shy now."

"G-get away from me." Haji represses a cringe. Only women use that melodramatic line. He tries to stagger away, but his legs buckle. Falling to his knees, he can only crawl. Diva's dizzyingly sweet scent fills the air, like rotten cherries and fruit-flies. He almost hears them buzzing through his head.

"Aw. Where're you going?"

In a blink, Diva appears before him. The ambience makes her eyes and necklace glitter; her smile is like firelight. Slipping off her high-heel, she pokes his chest with her toe. Pushes harder, sending Haji sprawling onto his back. Giggling, she slides her foot down his stomach. Presses against the seam of his pants, at that hard bulge that is already straining to return her pressure.

Teeth gritted, Haji tries to kick her. But Diva straddles and pins him. "Why do you keep fighting me? I promise not to hurt you. I just want babies."

Haji considers struggling again. But it is useless. His only weapon is his words.

"Do you think you deserve babies? After everything you've done?"

She seems genuinely bewildered, "Of course I do. Everything I've done is because I  _want_  babies. Now hold still, so I can—"

Coldly, he cuts in. "Would children want a mother like you? Someone who takes pleasure in the pain of others. If they grow up, they will never understand love. Certainly, they will never love  _you_."

She frowns. "Why  _wouldn't_  they love me? Babies love mommies. And mommies love babies. That's how it is. We're family."

"Sisters are family too."

"Of course they are. And I  _love_  Big-Sister-Saya."

This girl is  _insane_. If all the atrocities she's done to Saya are from  _love,_ Haji shudders at what her  _hatred_  might bring.

"Your sister does not love you. She wants to kill you. Inevitably, your babies will want the same thing."

Fear flickers on Diva's face. " _No_! They  _wouldn't_!"

"How can you be sure? You have caused so much destruction. Your own sister hates you. One day, your babies will too."

" _No_! My babies will love me. Because I love them. So  _there_!"

"Are you certain? You love your sister too. But she wants you dead. Doesn't that mean—" Diva's brutal slap cuts him off. The impact reverberates painfully through his skull.

Diva's eyes flash. "Sticks and stones may break my bones. But words aren't going to stop me."

Slipping her choker off, she fastens it around his neck. Yanks until it is painfully tight. Haji's mouth opens, helplessly straining for air.  _Choker._ He finally understands why it is called that.

One hand gripping the necklace like a leash, Diva reaches behind her with the other. Unbuttons his pants.

"Diva?"

She turns, and Haji cranes his neck around. It is the blond Chevalier—the one Haji saw with Niklas. There are bloodstains on his immaculate white suit. But he moves with the elegant equanimity of attending a formal soiree. " _Diva_. What are you doing here? You worried us sick. We have to head home now. This place isn't safe."

Diva smiles. "I won't be long, Solomon. I'm playing horsie."

Solomon crooks a brow. "We can  _play horsie_  all you want later. But not here. We have to go."

" _No_. I want my  _babies_."

"Babies? What do you—" Seeing Haji, Solomon's eyes narrow. "I see. So that's—"

"Sister Saya's Chevalier." Beneath Diva, Haji struggles. Annoyed, she swats him. "Will you hold him down for me, Solomon?"

Solomon stares blankly a moment. Then he smiles. "Of course, Diva. If that is what you wish."

In three strides, he crosses the room. Eerie, the sight of his pale angelic face and languid eyes, looming above Haji. But the play of shadows turns his features demonic. Crouching, he grabs Haji's weakly-flailing arms. Pins them down under his knees. His smile is icy. "Say, he seems a bit  _spacey_. Did you give him something, Diva?"

"Mmm-hmm. Nathan cooked him a love-potion. It works everyplace but where it counts. Kick it yourself and see."

"I'd certainly like to." Haji twists again. Seizing fistfuls of his hair, Solomon wrenches his head up, shaking him chidingly. "Hold still, you insect. There are far worse fates to suffer." He smirks. "Rather than Diva, that could be  _me_."

"Maybe it will be." Diva giggles. "Later."

_Oh God._

Haji hears his own frantic sawing breaths. Two lunatics holding him down. No way to get loose. Time unspools like spider-web, trapping him inside it in a way that shows how utterly it is his enemy.

Diva holds him down easily, unzipping his pants. Undulates back so her backside brushes his erection. Haji gasps. Obscene, how his body keeps responding to her, while his mind screams in denial. He never realized instinct and restraint could converge so utterly.

With one small warm hand, Diva takes and guides him toward her. Her face is knit with concentration now. Cheeks pink, eyes soft and shining. She exhales a breathless giggle. "Mmm. This is going to be a tight fit."

Solomon grimaces. "Should I be insulted?"

"Sssh. Pretend he's not here. My eyes are for  _you_."

He smiles. "That's what I'm hoping for."

Giggling, Diva leans in. Her long hair falls over Haji's face. She and Solomon kiss, dreamy and lingering, like partners-in-crime. Sighing, Solomon loosens his grip on Haji.

It is Haji's chance.

On a burst of energy, he surges beneath them. Unbalanced, Solomon tips over. Diva squeals, tumbling after him. But Haji has already sprung free. Sensation is returning to his floppy limbs, like fading obdormition. Regaining his balance, he sets his clothes to rights. And exits in a blue flash.

Aghast, Diva leaps up. Her voice is a whip-crack.

"Solomon!  _Get him_!"

* * *

Saya lunges at Amshel. Her blood-coated sword barely misses his throat.

Pivoting, Amshel seizes her wrist. Jerking her arm behind her, he sends her spinning wildly around, pain flashing through her body. The world flickers with red, and Saya screams in shock and anger

"You keep missing by a hairsbreadth, Saya. Is it accidental, or deliberate?" Amshel's tone is thick with derision. "Perhaps, if you accepted your instincts, you would have succeeded in killing me by now."

Teeth gritted, Saya wrenches free.

Amshel smiles coldly. "Or could it be, that you do not  _want_  to kill us? Perhaps, deep down, it is your  _own_  death you seek."

Snarling, Saya swings at him again. This time her blade nearly grazes his arm. Amshel feints smoothly, materializing behind her. Saya spins to face him. Her hair falls wildly around her flushed face. But in her eyes, beyond rage, Amshel sees kindling doubt.

His smile widens. Sensing weakness, he does what comes naturally. He attacks.

His fist flashes out, connecting with her jaw. The crunch of shattered bone is louder than Saya's grunt. Caught off-guard, she staggers backwards. Amshel hits her again before she can recover. Reeling, Saya slumps against a wall. Blood drips from her mouth, blending with the color of her dress. But her eyes blaze in pure defiance.

 _Such a waste of potential_.  _She could have been so much more._

"Thanatos," he muses. "The death urge. Do you know what that is, Saya?"

Saya swipes her bloody mouth, but makes no answer.

Thoughtful, Amshel tilts his head. "It is a rather controversial theory. An unconscious  _Trieb_  among all living creatures. To shed the constraints of their physical body. To reach an inorganic state. Of death." He smiles. "I see that urge in you. Previously, I had surmised it was limited to humans. But apparently I was mistaken. Perhaps the urge extends to all those creatures whose physical bodies hold them back. Of course,  _true_  Chiropterans suffer no such issues. Our powers are limitless. Shed your foolish inhibitions, Saya, and you will be rid of this  _death-wish_. You will rise above all limits."

Saya's bleeding mouth flattens. "Any creature above death doesn't deserve to exist, Amshel. It's against the order of things. So are we."

"So you mean to kill us all?" Amshel doesn't bother to mask his contempt. "Your ideals are pitifully warped, Saya. The humans are headed toward their own destruction. The most  _we_  can do is rise above their chaos. And play it to our advantage."

"We're parasites," Saya says. "We feed off those weaker than us. We should be wiped out."

"But  _everyone_  feeds off of  _someone_ , Sister Saya. Even birds and butterflies."

Amshel and Saya turn.

Diva stands a few feet off. Her hair is mussed, one high-heel gone, her choker missing several stones. But she beams as though her presence is the most natural thing in the world.

" _Diva_." Saya's eyes blaze. Incited by her twin's melodious bloodsong.

Amshel raises a brow. "I thought Nathan took you away, Diva."

"I was only looking for Sister Saya's Chevalier. He and Solomon are playing hide-and-seek now."

"Solomon is still here?" Idly, Amshel wonders how best to punish the boy. He—like all his brothers—has truly gotten out of hand.

Diva pouts, as if sensing his thoughts. "Don't be angry with him, Amshel. He was only doing what I asked."

"I am sure."

Diva glances at Saya. Her laughter is candy-sweet. "Sister!  _Look_  at you! Red outside. Red inside. You're like a pomegranate!" Her gaze hardens, vituperative. "Once you're squished, you'll leave blood  _everywhere_."

"The same goes for  _you_." Saya moves in a red-and-black smear. Her sword is extended like a lance. She stabs for Diva's chest. But the blow slices empty air. Stumbling, Saya whirls in surprise. "Wh-what—?"

Diva now stands beside Amshel. He loops his arm through hers.

"Regrettably, it is time for us to depart," Amshel says. "Goodbye, Saya. I hope, by next time, you will see things differently."

His mouth opens, but Saya hears no words. An enormous maelstrom of pressure shakes the room. Static crackles through her ears; the air is blurry, opaque. Unbalanced, Saya is flung off her feet. Her sword clatters away. There is a terrible murkiness rushing everywhere, filling her eyes, her mind, like being rattled inside a giant snow-globe.

When she can see again, she is splayed on her back. Her sword is embedded blade-first into the ground.

The massive vortex that shook her is gone. So are Amshel and Diva.

"Wha—?" She scrambles to her feet. Her senses parse out the area for her twin.

Nothing.

Saya gnashes her teeth.  _No! No! No!_

A deafening  _crash_  breaks the silence. And Saya hears—faintly—a familiar yell.

Her eyes widen.

_Haji._

* * *

Haji races full-pelt down the corridors. His torpor diminishes with every motion; he seems to glide on water, the stuffy air like wine.

_Saya..._

_Where is she?_

When Solomon crash-tackles him, he is unprepared. Slamming to the floor, both Chevaliers spring apart. Haji rises, tensing to strike. Solomon moves more leisurely, his stance dancelike. Like a pair of guard dogs, the two men circle each other.

Solomon offers a wry smile. "You certainly are easy on the eyes. I'll give you that. "

Haji lifts defensive fists.

Conversationally, Solomon continues, "You know, I was tempted to let you escape. But then there was the thought of Diva killing you afterward. Or better yet, letting  _me_  do it. I couldn't pass up on it."

In a flash, he jabs at Haji. His hand blurs and elongates into a claw before Haji's eyes. Using his forearm, Haji blocks the blow. The impact resounds with a noise more like steel than bone. Sustaining damage, Haji whirls, his foot aiming high for Solomon's face. The blond evades, swinging with the flat of his palm towards Haji's ribcage. Sensing the oncoming blow, Haji pivots sideways. Simultaneously, using the torsion of the movement, he kicks again, this time hard enough to dent Solomon's skull.

Blood splatters. In more surprise than pain, Solomon staggers sideways. "Astounding. Here I took you for the Damsel in Distress." His eyes spark red. "This means I don't need to hold back."

Invisible sheets of energy pour off him. Haji lunges to the left as an incandescent sphere—like an electrical tumbleweed spun from the air—flies his way. The strange mass  _whooshes_  past his head, colliding with the cabinet beyond. It shatters as if under gunfire. Stage-props—archaic helmets, shields, and swords, litter the floor.

Reeling, Haji maintains his footing. Battling Solomon is not his top priority. He needs to find  _Saya_.

_My best chance is not to subdue him, but lose him._

Solomon seems to second-guess him. "I cannot let you escape so easily, my friend. Diva requests the  _dis_ pleasure of your company. Whether I like it or not, I must fulfill my duty to her."

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he flings out a row of knives—like Haji's daggers, but thinner.

Haji ducks, the first three blades digging into the walls behind him. The last two, he blocks with his forearm. The knives are so sharp he barely feels their impact. Blood streams down his sleeve, dripping to the floor. Wrenching the weapons out, Haji darts to the right. The fallen stage props—among them, a mace and an antique sword, lie close by.

Scooping up the latter, Haji hurls it at Solomon like a spear.

The sword flashes as it spins through the air. Rather than dodging it, Solomon grabs it by the handle. To Haji's horror, he swings it skillfully back and forth, poised like a fencer, feet apart, one hand on hip.

"Good thing you didn't throw the  _mace_  at me." His green eyes dance. "I could have  _really_  taken your head off then."

He swoops forward. Haji tries to evade. But Solomon  _rams_  the sword straight through his chest. The point impales him below the sternum, projecting in a blood-splatter out his back. Haji gasps, caught off-guard. He wasn't expecting a stage-sword to be this  _sharp._

Grunting, Solomon digs the point into the floor, pinning Haji down. Haji winces as he collides on cement. Blood soaks his already-filthy shirt, puddling the floor around him.

Blearily, Haji thinks,  _Impaled. For the second time tonight. What are the odds...?_

Solomon smirks. "You know. I should probably just leave you here. I can always tell Diva you escaped. The idea of you—with  _her_ —is repulsive. She is far above  _your_  level."

Wheezing, Haji tries to remove the sword. But Solomon twists it sideways, widening the wound. Blood gushes. Haji grits his teeth, struggling not to cry out.

Idly, Solomon contemplates him. "Of course, given your blood-loss, you won't be able to function sexually anyway. In which case, you are already useless. I  _should_  leave you." Chuckling, he lifts his eyes. "But first I must hide the evidence."

Haji follows his gaze. A cluster of spotlighting equipment hangs above him, suspended from the ceiling. Smiling, Solomon saunters to the wall where the counterweight is attached. Without batting an eyelid, he unravels it. Like enormous meteors, the spotlights swoop down. Their deafening impact drowns Haji's yell.

Blood streams from gaps between the fallen equipment. Solomon surveys his handiwork, and, satisfied, exits.

A minute later, Saya rushes in.

"Haji?  _Haji_?"

Her eyes dart around. And alight on the blood beneath the spotlights. A pale hand sticks out of the mess like a distorted flower.

" _Haji_!"

Lunging at the equipment, she starts digging. And behind her, a sudden  _explosion_  rocks the auditorium.

Startled, Saya turns.  _What on earth—?_

* * *

The Met is a disaster area.

Barricaded, cordoned off, surrounded by squad cars. Inside, flashes of flame and resonating  _booms_  echo. It sounds like a fireworks convention happening indoors.

A Red Shield vehicle circles the area at a strategic distance. David, seated in the back, glowers out the window. Despite the gauze around his throat, shielding stitches, he speaks in his usual bark, "Whose bright idea was it to call the Special Forces in?"

George winces. He has a bandaged forehead and an arm in a slung, but is otherwise unhurt. "The government, sir. The mayor got in touch with Joel Goldschmidt, and had him order Red Shield off the premises. They want their own people containing the Chiropterans. The US of A's pretty touchy about that kinda shit."

" 'Contain'." David says disgustedly. "What the hell're they containing the Chiropterans with?  _Pocket_   _nukes_?"

George cranes his head to observe the Met. "Actually, they looked like Comp B's to me."

"That wasn't what I meant." David plucks irritably at his bandages. "Where the hell are Saya and Haji?"

George winces again.

" _Christ_." David shakes his head. " _Tell_  me they're not still inside."

"Um—no one saw them get out, officer. They must think we gave 'em the KMAG YO-YO."

"Perfect." David rubs his temples. "Sen-fucking-sational. We lose Diva, blow all our ammo, get fingered for the Met's damages, and there's no Saya and Haji to take it out on."

"Yeah." Rueful, George gazes out the window. "I'm worried about 'em too."

* * *

The place is a firestorm.

Leading with her katana, Saya bursts through a door. No-one is one the other side to meet her, and thus be sliced in half. Standing down, she eases Haji into the passage. Her Chevalier is white-faced, wobbly. But he has the energy to stand.

The air around them is thick with smoke; coughing, they hold sleeves to their mouths.

"When did—the fire start?" Haji asks.

"I'm not sure—" Choking, Saya watches flames devour the room behind them. "I heard—explosives earlier. But Red Shield wouldn't—detonate the area. It's too risky."

"Perhaps it was not—Red Shield." In the haze, sweat beads Haji's forehead. The stinging heat is oppressive. He and Saya stumble forward—only to lurch back when shattered debris falls from overhead. Narrowly evading, they rush down the passage.

A Chiropteran—its entire body alight—scrambles past them. Saya and Haji press back again, feeling the heat emanating off the creature as it stumbles through the corridors. Its miserable howls fuse with the crackling din.

There is no point in attacking it. The flames will kill it in a matter of moments.

A door looms ahead. Saya grabs the handle, yelping when the metal knob singes her fingers. Kicking it open instead, she and Haji lurch down a narrow flight of stairs. The air is even smokier here. Impossible to tell whether the conflagration is upstairs or down. The flames are  _everywhere_.

Gripping the banister, they race lower. But a blazing portion of ceiling tumbles. The banister, creaking under the impact, gives way. Yelling, Saya and Haji fall hard onto the floor below. The impact jolts through Saya's dazed body. Staggering to her hands and knees, helped up by Haji, she continues downward. Heat presses all around them. Their clothes are damp with blood and sweat.

"We are being—punished, aren't we?" Haji manages.

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"At the bar. We never—paid the tab."

Blearily, Saya squints at him. "Haji, this is no time—to be funny."

"It—never is."

Beyond them, another blast echoes. The shock-waves rattle the floor. A second section of ceiling topples.

Clutching the walls, the railing, anything for balance, Saya and Haji emerge on a different floor. But there is no escape. The area is twice as dense with fumes. Fire devours the furniture, licking at the curtains, the walls. The roar blots out all rational thought.

Dimly, Saya makes out the presence of more Chiropterans. But the impressions are as charred as the building. The creatures are either dying or about to. There are no people anywhere. The Opera House seems to have been evacuated. The objective is obviously to get rid of the Chiropterans.

Any damages along the way are acceptable.

Coughing, she and Haji hunker low. In the fierce orange light, she sees bloodstains on Haji, on both of them. Her head swirls from lack of oxygen. Despite the galvanizing terror, she is so sleepy. The recent fights, her Long Sleep, everything is piling up now; energy superseded by exhaustion.

Wearily, she slumps to her knees. Haji crouches beside her.

"We're—" her voice wavers. "—We're trapped here, aren't we?"

Haji makes no answer. His hand finds hers, squeezing.

Saya fights off a sudden wave of misery. Tears are backed up behind her eyeballs, so hot she thinks they might boil. The fetid heat constricts her lungs.

Over the blaze, Haji says something.

She lifts her head. "Wh-what...?"

"Something...I couldn't tell you before." In the surreal brightness, Haji's eyes reflect the flames. But his face is a cool white cipher. "Saya, I-I wanted you know—I—"

A pair of glossy shoes appears in Saya's line of vision.

" _Jeezus_. You two missed your calling for soap-operas. You are  _suckers_  for dramatics."

Alarmed, she and Haji look up. It is Diva's Chevalier—the puckish one with the crocodile smile. The air around him is murky as well as intensely bright. But the heat doesn't seem to touch him. He looks serene, unruffled, as if traipsing through a spring garden.

Gripping her sword, Saya tries to stagger up. Beside her, Haji lurches to his feet. Tittering, the Chevalier sets a hand on either of their shoulders. The touch seems light, but the pair finds themselves  _slammed_ down as if by gravity.

Grinning, the Chevalier leans in. The heat around them is a sandstorm now. Saya feels tiny particles blistering her skin—a swarm of fire-ants.

"Well, I guess it's up to  _me_  to show you out," the Chevalier says. "It's my duty as  _host_ , after all."

"What?" Saya asks. The miasmic flames dance in the Chevalier's eyes. She wants to look away. But her muscles—even those of her face—are torpid.

She feels the blow before it happens. His hands grab hers and Haji's heads, smashing them together so sparks erupt against the flames. Then the rippling orange scenery goes gray, then black, and she feels that blackness closing around her.

"I can't let you die yet." The Chevalier's voice is faraway. "After all. I made your mother a promise."

It is the last thing she hears, before everything fades to dimness.

* * *

KMAG YO-YO: Kiss My Ass Guys, You're On Your Own.


	34. Fermata

 

* * *

 **Fermata:**  finished.

* * *

Amshel faces the mantelpiece, hands crossed behind his back.

An enormous hand-carved mirror hangs above him, reflecting the room like a portal. Brilliant chandelier, glossy paneling, antique furniture. But the elegance contrasts with the chill zinging through the air.

"You realize, of course, that your actions were incredibly reckless," Amshel says.

The tableau behind him is still: Nathan, colorfully dressed, slouches lackadaisically on a sofa. James, in his crisp navy uniform, stands straight-backed by the door. Solomon and Karl, in white and black suits, loom shoulder-to-shoulder, like paradoxical twins.

"You all could have foiled—in  _one fell swoop_ —years of meticulous calculation. If the American government discovered we were responsible for the deaths at the Met, it would impede Goldsmith Holdings progress." Amshel's voice sharpens. "As it is, Red Shield captured one of our Chiropterans last night. The subject was tagged. If they trace its origin to our labs—and inform the US about it—it will strain our ongoing dialogue with the Americans. Nothing short of a disaster—something that decimates Red Shield  _completely_ —will improve our chances of an alliance with them."

"Brother, I accept full responsibility for what happened." Solomon's voice is respectful, yet firm. "I should have exhibited greater foresight. I intended to use the Chiropterans as a scare. I did not fully consider the damage releasing them would cau—"

" _No_." Karl steps in. His face is incandescent—not with anger, but determination. "It was  _my_  idea, Amshel. I am the one who convinced Solomon to bring those Chiropterans from the lab. And I am also the one who gave chase to that Red Shield operative. Solomon warned me, but I did not listen."

" _Karl_ —" Solomon protests.

Karl ignores him. "I accept full blame for what happened last night. You may do what you will with me."

Amshel glances sideways. The red light from the fireplace plays off his features. "For the moment, Karl, I intend to do nothing."

Karl freezes.

"However, this incident proves that you are an unstable factor in our matrix. You will be dealt with accordingly. But not tonight. Perhaps, years from now, you will learn the price of disobedience. Until then, you remain in a state of eternal disgrace."

Karl tactfully says nothing.

"That will be all, Karl. Now get out of my sight. Attend to your duties in Vietnam. I do not want to sense your presence in this house by tomorrow."

Karl nods, fists clenching. Without meeting anyone's eye, he stalks from the room.

Solomon shifts to go after him. But Amshel, as if intuiting his movements, says, "Solomon. I must speak with you."

Solomon halts mid-stride. "About... what, brother?"

"The dissenter. Niklas. Have you heard from him?"

"I have not contacted him since he made his final shipment. Why?"

"Sources inform me that Red Shield has discovered his activities. His stepfather sent operatives to contain him at his apartment. But Niklas managed to escape. He is currently on the run. I hear he is leaving an extensive paper-trail. At some point, Red Shield could trace him back to  _us_."

Solomon nods, contemplative. "Shall we help conceal him, then?"

Amshel's eyes narrow. "The opposite. We eliminate him."

Solomon stiffens, but maintains his poise. "I thought you had plans to make him a Chevalier."

"I have decided against it. Closer inspection reveals he would be an unsuitable ally. Too impulsive and emotional. The last thing we need is another  _Karl_. As it is, we could do without the  _original_."

Solomon nods, but more hesitantly. "Then who..." His voice lowers, "Who will you be sending to kill him?"

Amshel turns fully to face him. "You, of course."

The younger Chevalier blanches. "Me?"

"Naturally. After all, you did such a good job with  _Martin_. No evidence. No remorse."

"Brother. I think—perhaps it would be more suitable for—"

"No excuses." Amshel smiles frostily. "After all. It is not just at dancing that you excel, Solomon."

Solomon says nothing. But his mouth is a thin line. Murmuring assent, he leaves the room.

James watches him go, mildly contemptuous.

"James."

The Chevalier straightens with an almost audible  _snap_. "Yes, Amshel?"

"Have you completed the arrangements for Karl's and your trip to Vietnam?"

"I have."

"Then I suggest you do not tarry further. I want Karl out of my sight by tomorrow. In the meantime, see to Diva. After last night, I do not trust Karl and Solomon to stay in her presence. The last thing we need are more  _unpleasant surprises_."

James nods, eyes glowing with barely suppressed eagerness. "Understood." With all due haste, he quits the room.

The only Chevalier left is Nathan. Feline, easygoing, he yawns and stretches. Lifts his hands above his head, clapping in a slow, stately rhythm. " _Bravo_ , Amshel. Masterful, as ever. I've always said no one can crack that  _whip-hand_  quite like you do."

Amshel ignores the remark. Throttled menace ripples through the air around him. "I want to know precisely what you were thinking, Nathan. Capturing Haji, and placing James under my nose as a decoy."

Nathan rolls his eyes. "Isn't it  _obvious_? I was fulfilling Diva's wish."

Amshel's jaw tightens. "I appreciate neither your tone, nor implication. You make it sound as though I never attempt the same thing."

"No," Nathan says flatly. "You don't."

Amshel is shocked for a moment into silence.

Idly, Nathan examines his fingernails. "James, Karl and Solomon do behave foolishly. They often do things that are reckless. But ultimately, they all have one goal. For Diva to adore  _them_ , as they adore  _her_. But that isn't the case for  _you_. Oh no. The longer I know you, the more I see it." His tone is snaky, slithering. And like a snake, his eyes are flat. "You don't see Diva as your  _Queen_  at all. All she is, and ever will be to you, is a  _test subject_. One you would rather hoard for your own sadistic amusement, than share with the rest of the world."

Amshel cannot answer.

Without waiting for a dismissal, Nathan rises. "Just remember though. Your silly experiment can only succeed so far. Sooner or later, it's going to blow up in your face. You can't control  _every_  element in the concoction, after all."

On that, he sashays from the room.

Amshel watches the door click shut behind him, then turns to face the mantel. He is somewhat surprised to see a large crack running diagonally through the mirror above. It looks like a lightning-bolt tearing through the sky.

Waiting to strike.

* * *

Red Shield traces them after a call placed at the townhouse. Haji's voice, saying little more than their address. Arriving, David finds them a-ways from the city. They are at the refineries along the Turnpike. The surreal nighttime panorama of pipes and open flames, belching smoke and a web of twinkling lights, is like a scene from a futuristic movie.

Inhaling the bilgy air, David grimaces. "Ugh. And I thought Staten Island smelled like Swass and Swalls."

"It was the first thing I thought when I woke up. And I don't even know what Swass and Swalls  _is_."

Saya sits on a battered crate. Too thin and pale. Her hair is scraped back in a sloppy braid, one eye swollen, mouth crusted in blood. Haji's oversized jacket covers her bloodstained dress. On her ears, the diamonds still dangle—unnervingly bright against her bleak expression.

Wincing, David motions to the two Red Shield medics behind him. The operatives hurry forward with a first-aid kit. "How'd you and Haji get here?" he asks Saya. "We thought you were trapped in the Met."

"I-I don't know. The last thing I remember is seeing one of Diva's Chevaliers."

"You think he brought you here?"

Saya nods. Grim and inward, as if before a major battle. But when the medics approach, she waves them away. "What happened at the Met? Why did Red Shield pull back?"

Exhaling, David straightens his jacket. "The US Special Forces were called in. Our organization was ordered to Unass the AO. Last I heard, the city authorities were giving Joel Goldschmidt the third degree about the incident. By my guess, Red Shield and the United States' coalition is finished. Soon, we'll be ordered to pack our bags and get the hell out."

Saya nods. She doesn't seem particularly surprised. Or maybe she just doesn't care.

"...What about Diva?"

"No sign of her. Or her Chevaliers. But on the bright side, we captured one of the Chiropterans at the Met. The little fucker was tagged. We could locate where he's originally from. According to our scientists, it might be a facility in this very city."

"I see." Saya's face is like granite; ashy and tight-lipped. Again, David can tell she doesn't care. Her only interest is  _Diva_.

_Always the one who gets away..._

"Hey." Clearing his throat, David crouches beside her. Her small hand feels callused in his, like a child-soldier's. "You'll cream her next time, tiger. But right now, let's get your beat ass outta here."

Saya nods. But he doesn't think she hears him. Her face is full of thoughts he doesn't want to fathom.

Then she says, wistfully, "Your hands have gotten so wrinkled."

"Huh?"

"Your hands. They were never like this when I first met you."

"Well, uh. Yeah." David clears his throat. "Life's a waste of time an' time's a waste of life and all that shit. Besides. I got no Fountain of Youth blood like  _you_."

"I know." She draws her hand almost sadly from his, and gives his a squeeze. "David... thank you. For coming here so quickly. And for... all sorts of other things. You've been a bigger help than you know."

" _What_?"

Her expression clouds. "This war hasn't been easy for anyone. But I'm still glad I got to fight alongside you. Next time... I may not have a chance to tell you these things. But you should hear them, just the same."

"Okay." Hoping his embarrassment doesn't show, David draws back. "Getting creeped out."

"You always are." She sobers. "How's your injury?"

"Nothing critical." David fingers the bandages at his throat. "Although I'll probably have a nice scar or two to remember this goddamn evening by."

Saya shakes her head. He hears something hollow in her voice. "One way or another, we all will."

Quiet footsteps behind them. "I searched the area. There is no sign of Diva's Chevalier."

David turns. Haji is there, pale and composed, his white shirt rusty with old bloodstains. But unlike Saya, his skin is completely unmarked. David sees a faint red smudge at his lips, and understands.

 _He's just fed off of something. Or_  someone _..._

Uneasily, David straightens. "I'll order our men to double-check the area. Maybe the Chevalier could be hiding nearby."

"He's not," Saya says. "If Haji couldn't find him, then he's probably long gone."

"It might be best if we evacuate," Haji agrees tonelessly. "Just because he left us here, does not mean his true intentions were benign."

"The ol' 'Kill-em-with-kindness-before-killing-em-for real', huh?" David lights a cigarette. "I agree. Let's clear out. It fuckin' stinks out here."

Nodding, Saya rises. Her movements are jerky, like a wind-up toy's. Her lowered lashes cast shadows under her eyes, so that when she lifts them, her expression seems almost flirtatious. But the gaze—fixed on Haji's—is pleading.

As if on a signal, the Chevalier moves, closing the space between them. His arms come tight around her. He snatches her up so her feet leave the ground. For a moment, David thinks are going to kiss. But Saya only pushes back Haji's collar, lowering her mouth to his neck. In the gloaming, her fangs flash a split-second before they sink into his skin.

A tremor races through Haji—almost a secret vibration. Eyes slipping shut, he presses his face into her hair. They sway together, dreamlike, as if in a dance.

Wincing, David looks away. Hella creepy, having to see that up close. Even creepier, feeling like an intruder in something that is so honestly grotesque. There are some things about Saya and Haji he never wants to understand. Things he doesn't think  _anyone_  should.

But when he glances around again, Saya and Haji are gone.

* * *

Solomon finds Karl sitting on the parapet, watching the moon.

For a moment, Solomon just stands there, observing his younger brother. The desolation on Karl's face, the simmering aroma of his misery, is an embodiment of Solomon's own. The only difference between them, really, is that Karl combats his with sharp-edged venom, whereas Solomon shelves his own away with fatalistic indifference.

_Or is Karl the true fatalist between us?_

_Perhaps he has already accepted that this life is hopeless. Perhaps he is simply biding his time, waiting for an escape._

_Just as I am._

Hunched like a gargoyle, Karl looks out over the city. "Don't you have an assassination to prepare for, Solomon?"

The elder Chevalier pauses. "You heard Amshel's orders?"

"Of course. And if you want the truth, I am unsurprised." His voice rises in something like amusement, but darker. "The last thing our family needs is another  _me_."

Solomon sighs. "That is Amshel's opinion, Karl. Not mine. As it is, I wanted to talk to you about something else."

"What might that be?"

Solomon swallows. His throat still feels sandy from that concoction Amshel gave him. It isn't a pain so much as an acute discomfort. He wants to gulp a cupful of acid, burn the sensation away. If he could, he'd burn away the moment he became a Chevalier the same way. He'd never have accepted Amshel's offer. Never drunk Diva's blood.

He'd have gone on being puny and human, but at least, in his own way...free.

_I wonder if Karl feels the same way?_

_After all, I_  agreed  _to be a Chevalier._ He _was never given a choice._

Karl's head is silhouetted against the full moon. He watches Solomon, unblinking.

Solomon sighs again. "Karl, you did not have to take the blame for last night. If I remember correctly, we  _both_  set the Chiropterans loose. There was no reason for you to—"

"It doesn't matter. Regardless of whose fault it was, Amshel will put the blame on me. After all, you are his protégé. His shining star." He chuckles bitterly. "I am the whipping boy."

"I am not quite sure Amshel sees me as—"

"Of course he does. Amshel spent the most time shaping  _you_. In business. In combat. You were modeled in his image. You owe your very success to him."

"That—does not mean I am exactly like Amshel."

A strange emotion flickers in Karl's eyes. "I never said you were. I simply mean, in his own way, Amshel feels responsible for you. Just as you, dear brother, feel responsible for  _me_. You both see something of your own selves in your younger charges."

Solomon raises an eyebrow. "I thought you said I wasn't like Amshel."

"I said you weren't  _exactly_  like him. He was born the way he is. You were his creation. What was inherent for him,  _you_  had to be taught." He chuckles. "It is the same with you and I. Except perhaps you taught me a little  _too_  well."

"I don't understand you."

"Because you never listen." In a smooth, reptilian movement, Karl does a handstand on the parapet. His long hair falls down around his face, the ends of his well-cut coat dangling like batwings. The sight gives Solomon a strange pang. Karl always seems, no matter what the circumstances, to remain so  _in the moment_.

Even now, reprimanded and disgraced, facing separation from Diva, he acts as if the world is his oyster.

Perhaps this is how he endures immortality. By  _losing_  himself. No plans or inhibitions. Total absorption. Even in the maelstrom of carnage, he has a talent for looking like the only one who is truly  _alive_.

Solomon wishes he were the same.

His mind drifts, oddly, to that red-lily hairpin he stowed away at his apartment. He cannot explain why he has kept it. But something about the pin—its shape, perhaps its faint scent—stirs his blood. Makes him wonder  _who_  the item belonged to.

_That woman who attacked me…_

_She was not human._

_I realized that even before she'd knocked me out._

Guesswork is not required to ascertain her identity. It was obviously the Great Enemy.

 _Saya_.

Unbidden, flashes of her resurface. The long wild hair. The silky red gown spilling like blood down her body. The electric bloodlust crackling in her eyes.

A perfect predator in her own right. Just like Diva.

 _No,_ Solomon corrects.  _Not just like Diva._

_She was fiercer, somehow._

_More…_

"Thinking of her?" Karl cuts in.

"What?"

Karl somersaults, landing on his feet on the parapet. The moon casts a stark lineation over his body as he goes through a shadowboxing stance. Duck-jab-cross, elbows tight to his chest, legs poised with the graceful tension of a tightrope-walker's.

"Karl—what?"

Karl's punches are snakes—swift and mercurial. "You are thinking about her, aren't you? Our Great Enemy?"

"How do you know—?"

"You have been… inward, ever since meeting her. As if you are daydreaming." Karl's eyes are closed. But he seems aware of every particle of his surroundings. "I remember Amshel once claiming that this was Saya's most dangerous quality. Once a Chevalier met her face to face, he would grow obsessed. For her death. For something else. He referred to it as a  _Primal Urge_. In the blood."

Solomon's lips thin. "Perhaps he was right."

"I doubt that. Amshel has a history with saying only what suits him. He brainwashes us about  _monsters in the closet_. Just to keep us under his thumb." Karl's eyes open, fixing on Solomon's. "You are going to kill that human as he ordered, aren't you?"

Solomon tries to avoid his gaze. "I must fulfill my duty."

"Which means 'Yes'," Karl says. "It's strange. I was sure Amshel would make Niklas a Chevalier. To replace  _me_. Instead, you are being sent to  _kill_  him. It makes me wonder..."

"What?"

Karl's eyes burn red. Intense. "If given the order, you'd probably kill me the same way. Wouldn't you?"

"What…?" Affronted, Solomon shakes his head. "Karl, I would never—"

"You would if you really  _wanted_  to. If you wanted something badly enough, and I was standing in your way." Karl smiles, fangs brilliant in the moonlight. "After all, Amshel  _is_  the one who shaped you to stop at nothing to get what you want. Just as you trained  _me_."

"Perhaps so. But Amshel never shaped what I truly  _want_. That is where we differ, Karl. Our big brother and I will never want the same things."

"So what  _do_  you want, Solomon?"

"At the moment," Solomon smiles. "For you to come with me."

"What for?"

"As you said, I have an assassination tonight. I would like your help in executing it."

Karl raises an eyebrow. "My  _help_?"

"Of course." In a fluid movement, Solomon leaps on the parapet. Face to face with Karl. "This assignment is  _duty_  for me. But I imagine it can be something entirely more  _stimulating_  for the likes of  _you_."

Karl makes no answer. But his mad laughter swirls into the air. Suffusing the night with scarlet hues of bloodlust.

* * *

It is several hours before dawn. Snowfall glitters in the glow of streetlamps.

Huddled in a long brown coat, collar drawn high, Niklas hurries down the street. The neighborhood is nearly silent, the apartments on either side exhaling sleep. No one is in sight. Even so, Niklas feels as exposed as a fresh wound.

The headlights of a passing car flash past him. Wincing, Niklas shrinks back. His heart thuds so hard he can feel it knocking against his ribcage. But his anxiety is warranted. The last thing he needs is someone recognizing his face.

He is running for his life.

His stepfather has learnt of his betrayal. Red Shield has been alerted to arrest him on sight. All his contacts in the organization are suddenly unavailable. And even if he gets in touch with them, there is no guarantee that they will not betray him. He is on his own.

_No. That's not true._

_Solomon promised that Diva would make me a Chevalier. He will come back for me._

_I_  know  _it._

Nearing the tenement where he's rented a room, Niklas struggles to calm himself. He has never felt such a looming sense of terror before. High-ranking Red Shield operatives seldom face mortal danger. Their only threats are bureaucratic. Only the soldiers on the frontline—people like Saya and Haji—face death daily.

 _Solomon will come for me,_  he tells himself feverishly.  _He will come._

Glancing up at the building, Niklas freezes. Counting the floors, he thinks for a moment that his neighbor's lights are on. Then, in wide-eyed shock, he realizes they are his own.

_Oh no…_

There is no question of his having left them on himself. Who could be up there?

_Is it Red Shield? Have they found me...?_

_Or is it...?_

A flood of desperate hope swallows all logic. Before he knows it, Niklas is racing up the stairs. His door is unlocked; there is nothing in his apartment to steal. Throwing it open, he steps in.

"S-Solomon...?"

He expects to see his battered futon sofa, and a heap of dirty clothes against one bare brick wall. The grimy kitchenette, with two crates holding more clothes, passports, travel papers, and other oddments.

Instead he enters the golden glow of candlelight.

A few flickering stubs rest on the nightstand. They cast a dreamlike ambience through the room, turning its squalor into something Bohemian. Glamorous. Gilded by the glow, Solomon leans against a wall. Eerily pale and ethereal, blond hair curling over his forehead. A fallen angel.

Niklas' throat tightens. His eyes feel humid. "Solomon—is it r-really you?"

A fond smile. "Of course it is. Did you really think I'd forget you?"

"N-No. Of course not. It's just—for a minute I thought you might—" Unsteadily, Niklas shuts the door. His heart skips several beats. He has to cough to breathe. "God. I-I was afraid I'd never see you again."

"Ah, Nikki..." Arms open, Solomon approaches him. When they embrace, Niklas' skin leaps, as if the touch of the other man's palms is something electric and powerful. It is only then that he grasps how terrified he has been. His body thrums with the aftershocks of tension. Tears burn his eyes.

Blindly, he clings to Solomon. Everything is going to be all right now. He is with the one he loves. The one who will  _save_  him.

Drawing back, he gives Solomon a shaky, sheepish smile. "I was—just about to leave this apartment. Switch to another location. And then we might never have— _God_. H-How did you find me?"

Solomon taps the side of his nose. "It was easy enough. I asked around a little bit. Let rumors guide me. My senses took care of the rest."

Eyes squeezed shut, Niklas hugs him again. "I knew it. I  _knew_  you would come back. I was half-ready to lose hope, but a part of me  _knew_ —!"

"Ssh. Calm down, Niklas. You're shaking." Gently, Solomon draws back. Touches his cheek with one smooth palm. "Honestly, look at you. You're a wreck. You really  _were_  frightened, weren't you?"

Ashamed, yet not, Niklas whispers. "…Yes."

"Well, you needn't worry anymore. Soon, everything will be fine."

Niklas nods jerkily. "I know. I know. I have you with me now. Please—tell me we are going to leave this place? Tell me Diva will make me a Chevalier?"

Solomon smiles warmly. But his voice is chilling. "Keep dreaming, Niklas."

"Wh-what?"

In a guttering rush of wind, the candles go out. The room is plunged in darkness. In the gloom, Solomon's eyes glow. Devil-red.

Niklas tenses. The Chevalier's arms, still around him, are no longer encompassing bolsters. They feel like iron bands. Wincing, he tries to pull away. "So-Solomon—what're you—?"

The blond titters. "Oh Nikki. It's about time you learn that there are some people you should  _never_  trust. No matter  _how_  stupidly desperate you are."

Confused, Niklas opens his mouth to speak. Then the room spins—he finds himself hurled back, with crippling force, against the wall. He hits it at angle, shoulder-first. Fragments of plaster rain everywhere. Groaning, tasting blood in his mouth, Niklas sinks to the floor.

"S-Solomon—" His heart is speeding at a phenomenal pace. Not in confusion. In  _fear_. "What are you—?"

Hands in pockets, Solomon steps slowly, deliberately over to Niklas. The shadowy room, lightened somewhat by the streetlamp near the window, harlequins his smiling face.

"You know, Niklas. A lady once offered me an interesting tidbit about love and sex. She said a man could never tell a woman's intentions, by how she pleased him in bed. In return, I told her a woman could likewise never tell a  _man's_  intentions, by how he pleased  _her_ in bed. And together, we reached one conclusion. Male or female, it does not matter. What matters is, regardless of how close you are—or  _think_ you are—to someone, they can turn against you. All they need is a  _reason_  to do it."

"Reason...?" Confusion and terror roils through Niklas. He trembles. "Solomon—I-I never gave you any reason to—For God's sake, why are you  _doing_  this—?"

"For the one reason  _you_  were struggling to escape, Niklas.  _Duty_." Solomon's smile fades. His visage, frigid, impassive, seems carved from stone. "Brother Amshel has decided you are of no further use. You have no more influence in Red Shield. You are being hunted. You are leaving an incriminating paper-trail. What possible benefit could you be for us now?"

"But—but I thought—"

"Thought what? That I had feelings for you?" Smirking, Solomon shakes his head. "Oh Niklas. Just as fear keeps you alive in war, fear keeps you alive in business. And it is your  _fear_  that I fed on. So you'd do as I told you to. That is all I cared about. After all, as you said yourself, I am a Chiropteran. I have everything a person could dream of. Wealth. Immortality. A powerful family. Why would I put up with your  _failings_  and  _neediness_ , unless it was to aid Diva's cause?"

Niklas feels tears in his eyes. He tries to force them down, but they are already spilling down his face. Burning him alive, just like Solomon's words. Shivering, carved out, he wants to curl up and die. His life is ruined. He has no more position, no money, no family, and the one he gave it up for has turned on him.

His voice is ragged. "You n-never told me—that you h-hated me."

"Hate?" Solomon shakes his head. "I do not hate you, Niklas. That word requires a capacity for  _emotion_. And between us, there was none. Think about it. I was always so pleasant with you. Temperate. Unpressing. Rational. Does that sound like someone in  _love_? Of course not. It's how one would treat a  _mailman_. Real love is something powerful. Something raw and consuming. And, quite frankly, something I would never waste on the likes of  _you_."

The agonizing words saturate Niklas. But then they thicken, bubbling into a black vicious hatred.

"Then I hope, one day, y-you feel as  _I_  do," Niklas says. "I hope you learn how it feels to give up everything for someone. To have that person abandon you. And I hope you die like a  _dog_. Wondering, with your last breath, if you meant  _anything_  to them."

Solomon touches his chest. "A poignant eulogy. I shall carve it on your tombstone."

"I don't care what you do." Niklas throws his head back. Tears of fury and pain slip down his cheeks. "Just go ahead and kill me."

"Me?" Solomon smiles coolly. "You have it all wrong, Niklas.  _I_  am not going to kill you."

"Wha-what?"

"Oh, Nikki. You  _know_  I detest getting my suits creased. Blood-work is not for me." Smile widening, Solomon glances beyond Niklas. "However,  _Karl_  suffers no such qualms."

"K-Karl—?" Niklas turns. From the preternatural gloom, a figure emerges. A pale Asian man with long glittering black hair. His gaze is reflective, eerie, like a cat's in the darkness. The faint streetlight strikes off his sharp white fangs.

"Here you are, Karl," Solomon says. "An armistice dinner. Something to seal our brotherhood, and let bygones be bygones. Are you hungry?"

"Ravenous," Karl whispers.

It is the last thing Niklas hears, before the Chevalier lunges at him, an open maw of dagger-teeth, and blood splatters high and red across the room.

* * *

Flicking through the pages of a fashion mag, Nathan freezes.

He sits at his favorite perch by the tall window, legs crossed, a crystal-cut glass of blood in one hand. Blue light of the television fills the room. With the volume down, the images onscreen are a pantomime. The last ten minutes of  _Here's_   _Lucy._

But that isn't what interests Nathan. His senses are overwhelmed by the  _silence_.

Another person would describe it as tranquil. A  _fermata_  note descending into graceful stillness. But not Nathan. As Diva's Chevalier, silence is  _never_  a good sign.

Setting the book aside, Nathan tiptoes to Diva's room. James is in there. Nathan catches shades of his aura—steely yet brittle; like a rigid armor over a pulpy underbelly. But Diva's aura—always so silvery and radiant, like a thrilling echo of her mother's—is subdued.

Nathan sighs. He knows what's happened, before he knocks on the door. "Yoohoo? You kids playing nice in there?"

No answer.

Nathan pauses, then shrugs. Shoving the door open, he shimmies in with his usual  _savoir-faire._ "Anything the matter? Diva was so quiet, I was afraid you'd  _bored_  her to death, James."

"Dammit, Nathan.  _Get out_!"

James' voice wavers at the edges, like a struck gong. Shirtless and barefoot, he sits hunched at the foot of the bed. His face is ashen and sweaty. Or is it teary? Either way, Nathan can only recall one time he's seen James that unhinged.

When Diva entered her last Long Sleep.

Feigning confusion, he asks, " _Whaaat_? Oh, don't  _tell_  me you're so prudish you won't let me see you half- _dressed_? You were a  _military boy_ , James. I thought you guys invented communal showers and circle jerks and all that crap."

James makes no answer. Only hunches further. His shoulderblades spasm.

Nathan saunters closer. "What is it? You look like someone threw you a blanket party." He pauses. "Wait. That's a Marine thing, isn't it?"

James doesn't seem to hear him. He is muttering almost feverishly to himself. "Can't believe...? How could she forget...?"

"James?" Nathan waves a hand before his face. "Helloooo? Earth to James? What's eating you? I mean, aside from the obvio—"

James springs up, nearly unbalancing him. Grabs up his clothes, neatly folded on the dresser-chair, and yanks them on in tense, frantic motions. He looks like he is trying to escape a guillotine. Or running headlong into one. "She didn't—couldn't remember. She forgot—"

"Forgot what?"

For a split-second, James' eyes meet his. Nathan is unsurprised by the pain burning them. One way or another, Diva burns all her Chevaliers. Her casual destructiveness is worse than wildfire.

" _Me_!" James snaps. "She— _forgot_ —me, forgot my  _name_! Right before she closed her eyes! She didn't— _recognize_  me. She kept asking for—for—"

_For Sister Saya._

Nathan blows air through his cheeks. Poor James. Like all the brothers, he has a Chevalier's body, but a human's ego. And egos are such fragile things. Nathan would know. His own—like parts of his consciousness—shattered when his Queen died. All that's left are jagged chunks remodeled in a pitiful attempt at something arty.

_If you can call it that…_

He sighs. "Let's not dwell on it, James. At  _least_  you got to spend the last few minutes with her. That's what's important. Once you're in Vietnam, busy with duties, I  _guarantee_  you won't have time to remember her insensitivities and lapses in affection or—"

"Dammit.  _Dammit_."

Like a baying rottweiler, James lunges from the room. The stench of misery trails after him.

Smirking, Nathan buffs his nails.  _Works every time._

Making light of his brother's unhappiness might seem callous. But what does Nathan care? Adorable as James is, he's not really Nathan's  _brother_. And, well, the boy  _is_  sort of a twinkie. A few negative experiences might just give him some psychological depth.

_There's more to life than hickory dickory docks and mice running up the clock._

Sighing, Nathan draws open the curtains at the window. With the city aglow and the moon full, the room is bright, even with all the lights off. His eyes fall on the figure in bed.

 _Diva_.

Lying on her side, she is fast asleep, her rhinestone necklace ripped to pieces. Nathan wonders (with a ghastly giggle) if James tore it off her during their earlier throes. Tiny crystals glitter on the bedsheets, on her bare skin, like snowflakes.

Diva's expression reminds him of the same thing. Something cool and dreamy and pure. Diva really is pure, in her own way. She has none of the guile or malice that this world teems with. But that is exactly what makes her so dangerous. She is the embodiment of everything people would rather see crushed.

Nathan sighs.  _You really are just like your mother, aren't you?_

_And, like your mother, I suspect you're not meant long for this world._

Smoothing Diva's rumpled hair from her face, Nathan pauses. A thin tube is clutched in her little fist. Prying it away, he realizes it is a kaleidoscope. Probably Karl's. He remembers Diva prattling gleefully about the Magical-Rainbow-Looking-Glass-Thingy Karl gave her.

"Well, dip me in duck shit." Nathan chuckles, recalling the rules of his contest. "She  _did_  pick the present she loved best."

Which means that Karl, ostracized and wretched though he is, is now responsible for shipping Diva's cocoon.

_Lucky bastard._

Of course, none of this will improve Karl's likeability in his other brothers' eyes. But what difference does it make? Like Diva, Nathan often suspects Karl isn't meant for this world, either. In a way, perhaps none of their family is.

_Maybe Saya is right to erase us all? Maybe that's the only thing left?_

Then again, maybe not.

Nathan doesn't really care. Right and wrong, philosophy and duty—none of that matters to him. He's only here to watch the story play out. And, in its wake, honor the memory of his queen.

 _Doubt thou the stars are fire;_  
Doubt that the sun doth move;  
Doubt truth to be a liar;  
But never doubt I love…

As the years pass, that's the only emotion he holds sacred anymore.

* * *

Doubt thou the stars are fire/ Doubt that the sun doth move…  _Taken from Shakespeare's 'Hamlet'._


	35. Unvollendete

 

* * *

**_~Unvollendete_.**

* * *

At night, she awakes three or four times, as always.

The war has thrown her off her natural sleep-patterns. Between hunts and travel, she has little opportunity for respite. Snatches it, here and there, on trains, in cars. But never more than a few moments. These few decades, she has forgotten how to rest undisturbed.

Forgotten how to sleep without fear of dreaming.

But tonight, Haji senses a deeper turmoil.

Each time, her half-lidded eyes open, concentrating on his face. Curved against his body, warm arms and legs tangled with his, her cheek rests on the same pillow, shower-wet hair coiling everywhere. A rectangle of moonlight spills in through the window, making her glow.

She looks pensive, as if she knows secrets she can never tell him.

Each time, he asks her what's wrong. But she only kisses him, and then her hands are on him, and her mouth, stirring and enticing, drawing him into the act that is an explanation in itself.

There is no shyness to her tonight. Only a voluptuous sweetness that feeds on itself, spinning its witchy spell around him. Starving him for more. The sweet weight of her bearing down on him, surrounding him. Her hot mouth and delicious cries, her long hair stirring across his face with the languid rhythm of her body, her flush spreading beneath his adoring hands and mouth, suffuse him with awe.

She breathes his name, over and over. Gasping it and sobbing it.  _Haji_.  _Haji_. Limbs so smooth at first, then quivering under slippery sweat. Whole body thrumming around him, so that each time he kisses her, he feels that thrum in her swollen lips, tastes it beneath her skin. An elegy in blood.

Until he senses what she cannot tell him.

This isn't a discourse. It is a valedictory.

He loses track of time. The hours melt together; melting him with them under her scorching heat and gaze. Tension pooling from his entire body to collect at his groin, so that when he peaks in that final moment, drawing her in tight as he groans and jerks under her, he feels something cascading from him, beyond the mechanics of orgasm.

She absorbs an irreplaceable part of him. Keeps it for herself.

And he knows he'll extinguish without her.

At the tip of morning, somewhere around six, she stirs again. Their room is bathed in hot sunlight. By its glow, the towels from their earlier shower are scattered across the carpet. The phone— _deliberately_?—knocked off its cradle. One of Saya's diamond earrings glitters on the rumpled bedspread. The other still dangles at her left ear.

Haji's focus dulls to its sparkle. He can see the flicker of fading dreams behind Saya's eyelids, feel the sinuous thread of her pulse. Checking for vital-signs, although yesterday's disaster has passed. Even so. Their near-expiration at the Met was too close a call. The sort of thing that makes him yearn to transform  _ifs_  and  _maybes_  into something solid.

He wants to trap each minute with her, even as it slips from his fingers.

Spooned against his chest, Saya tenses. Eyes fluttering open. Her words are a moist oasis against his neck.

"Ha-Haji?"

"I'm here." He lays a hand on her body, under her breasts. She covers it with her own. Tousled and golden in the sunrays—no longer the pale night-apparition. But so  _real_. Sighing, he draws her closer, loving the feathery feel of her fine hair spread across his chest, the peachy softness of her skin. His raspy whisper stirs her hair. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know." She winces. "No. How could I be? I…let her escape."

_Diva._

The name unfolds between them like an unseen banner. Its edges smoking and tattered, yet all the more ominous in meaning.

Saya's be-all and end-all.

He can't think of anything to say, which won't sound inept. Diva may have escaped. But a part of him—selfish, traitorous—is almost glad. It lends him another slice of time with Saya. Ultimately futile time. A few stolen moments will not reverse their duty, after all.

But still...

As Saya's Chevalier, he wants Diva dead irrecusably.

But as  _Haji_ , he knows one sister's death will be a prelude to the other's.

Burrowing his face in her hair, he breathes her in. "Please do not blame yourself. You are still alive. That is enough."

_Especially for me._

Saya says nothing. Only squeezes his hand. But he feels the dark energy of her, vibrating against his skin. Strange. Even though she'd spent so often last night, shaking and crying out on top of him, she still isn't at peace.

Terrible, that he can't comfort her, be her sanctuary, the way she is his. Terrible too, knowing even if he was, it wouldn't make their mission easier.

Nothing is easy.

Beneath his hand, her stomach gurgles. He smiles faintly. "Are you hungry?"

She flushes. "No. W-we should get up."

"Sssh. We have time." Their meeting with Red Shield isn't until eight. And he doesn't want to sever this languorous warmth between them. Circling a thumb over the small of her back, he gathers her closer. She lets off a little sigh, her cheek nestled in the cool curve of his neck. A bubble of silence floats over them; he wants to melt into it with her. They can be safe there.

Yet the moment beckons like an open palm. A chance—at last—to discuss their terrible death-pact. More than that, a chance to confess his own feelings. It would only be a matter of opening his mouth, saying the words. He tries to concentrate, find the right opening. But having wrung himself so completely into her, he is overwhelmingly drowsy. Nothing feels important. He just wants to drift off on her scent, spicy with sweat and sleep.

Then Saya lifts a hand, shyly stroking his jaw. "I–I like this. Waking up with you this way."

"So—so do I." Not that he needs sleep, but... "You know what I mean."

She giggles. But her eyes are sad. "We shouldn't have done this.  _I_  shouldn't have. I'm supposed to keep both eyes on my duty. But you make me feel so ... you make me wish things were different. I'm sorry. I say it everytime, but it doesn't make this better."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. I was perfectly willing. When it comes to you, I always will be."

She colors up, eyes dipping. "I-I know. And I think... I'll miss that most of all."

"What?"

But she's already pulling away, exposing his bare moist flesh to the cool air. In the sunlight, her left earring sparkles—a morning star.

"We should scan the city. Maybe we can still find traces of Diva. Besides. I-I can't stay in bed any longer. If I get sleepy again..."

Haji understands. She is already at the crux of her Long Sleep. The next time she closes her eyes, they may not open until decades after. Despair rises, threatening to swamp him. Slowly, he straightens.

"I'll make you some coffee."

"Thank you." She avoids looking at him as he slips from bed, pulling on his clothes. A half-frown on her face, signaling not anger, but contemplation.

Haji half-hears what she wants to say.

He'd tasted it in all her kisses last night.

Belly full of lead, he quits the room. His bare feet scrape the kitchenette floor as he boils water. He can hear Saya's movements in the bathroom. The shower coming on. On the floor above, vaguely familiar music floats in; some classical melody he only half-recalls.

_I have heard it before._

_What was it called?_

The shrieking kettle usurps the memory. Pouring water into a mug, he muses: How surreal it is, carrying out these quotidian tasks. Especially given last night's carnage. Several stories below, traffic blares; the human world, shaking off sleep to begin a new day.

But the noises seem so alien. Unnatural. He's grown too accustomed to the nighttime.

Saya often says, as Chiropterans, they don't belong in the light. Don't belong among what is  _normal_. And it occurs to him: How long has it been since he's contemplated a normal life with Saya? He's half-forgotten his boyhood daydreams of marrying her. Of having a home and a family.

Has becoming a Chiropteran merely erased the foolish idea? Or is it because he knows, deep down, that their future is hopeless?

Tempting to think of it that way. Except it isn't true.

In reality, Saya has become his world so utterly, he's stopped defining  _normal_  except by her terms. Ceased to consider words like  _home_  or  _family_ , except in her conjunction.

He wishes he could tell her that. Wishes, for the umpteenth time, he could beg her to forget their promise. Swear to take care of her—however he can—if only she lets herself  _live_.

Let her accuse him of emotional coercion. At least the truth will finally be out.

He returns with a steaming cup of coffee. Saya has already bathed and dressed. The bed is still unmade, its blankets tangled and the cover sheet coming undone. She sits by the window, refusing to look there. Last night may as well have been a dream. Except the reek of sex still suffuses the air.

Haji hesitates. "Perhaps you should feed before we search for—"

"No. Thank you."

Both so formal now. She takes the cup from him. Their fingers do not touch. In the sunlight, her skin is pale, flecked by beads of water. Making his own feel greasy. But he can't bear to wash her off yet.

Saya balances the cup on the windowsill. He watches her do that one-two-combination: mouth firming, eyes narrowing. He braces himself. She has an air of dissent.

"I think ..." she says, and stops.

"What?"

A car screeches outside. She glances out the window, tucking a damp lock of hair behind her ear. He feels her holding her breath.

"Saya?"

"I just ... I think when I'm in my Long Sleep, you should return to that woman from Red Shield. Or... or to anyone. I don't want to think of you being alone. It's not right. You've suffered enough—"

Hearing this, Haji realizes, although he's anticipated her renunciation, it still comes as a blow. In a recess of his mind, that old sonnet of Joel's returns to him. Except now he absorbs its deeper subtext.

_Car ma joie arrive à bout_

_Sans votre affection._

_'My joy is at its end… Without your compassion…'_

"Haji?"

From Saya's tone, he knows he cannot control his face, which is spasming into a grimace. He jerks his head aside. "You should—concentrate on the Mission at the moment, Saya."

"But—" She swallows. "I-I just want to make this easier for you. So much has happened. I know... I know things about you better. I know what you've been going through during my Long Sleeps. How can I not want to help you? If it's really so hard for you to fight, you should have someone to take care of you. You've always taken care of  _me_. Why shouldn't you—"

"Saya. Please. I cannot—"

"That's just it. I don't understand why you can't—"

His jaw tightens. "If you don't understand, then you know nothing about me, Saya."

" _What_? How can you say that? I've known you longer than anyone—!"

He exhales. "In a matter of semantics."

"Haji—" She softens. "I'm not trying to insult you. If I thought you could carry on this duty alone, I'd never bring this up. But it's not so simple anymore. The idea of you with someone else isn't something I _want_. But if it's so hard for you—if you're lonely—then you should be with someone."

"You needn't worry about my being lonely, Saya. Your— _magnanimity_  does you credit. But—"

"Don't be sarcastic, Haji. I  _know_  what lonely is."

Of course he knows. He'd learnt this back when they were still at the Zoo. Watching Saya mourn her own strangeness, and being unable to help her. Half-knowing, despite their camaraderie, that there was a fundamental difference in their blood.

Was this why she'd sought out Diva? To find someone more like  _her_?

His head is pounding. A moment ago he was swept in righteous anger at her words. But that has dissipated now. Her grief is too pervasive.

"Why bring this up now, Saya?" he asks. "Especially after—"

_After last night._

He'd already felt her saying goodbye with her whole body. But hadn't she parsed out what  _he_  was saying to  _her_?

_I love you. I always have._

_Please… do not do this to me._

Saya stares out the window. The sun bathes her weary face. "I'm only bringing this up... because we won't get the chance later. Last night... can't happen again." She faces him, and her eyes are reddening. "These few days, I really don't think I'd have made it, if you hadn't been so patient with me. And I-I don't just mean—what we did in bed. It's all sorts of other things. But that's exactly why it has to stop. We can't do this anymore."

"Saya—" His thoughts are flailing grotesquely, like headless snakes. But despite expecting her dismissal, he did not expect her to admit... "Saya—if anything we did—helped you feel better, why would you want to end it? Your duty is hard enough. If I can make it easier for you, in any way, there is no shame in—"

Her smile is impish. "Are you asking this for my benefit? Or yours?"

"Saya—"

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be flippant. Everything you've done has been for my sake. That's what I—appreciate about you. But this war is my responsibility. I can't keep counting on you for more support than I already am. Because..." Her voice shakes. "At this rate, I'll never stop."

_Is that wrong?_

He doesn't say that. Clearly, in Saya's eyes, it is.

Suddenly, he hears everything she can't tell him. It is like that evening after Joel's funeral, when she'd tried to send him away. For, what she'd believed, was his own good.

A gender-averted Hamlet, torn between vengeful solitude and suicide.

 _Let me be cruel, not unnatural;_  
_I will speak daggers...but use none._

Unable to help it, he smoothes back her hair. "This was why I agreed to fight in the war, Saya. To  _help_  you. If I can do that—in any insignificant way—"

Catching his cool hand, she presses it to her overheated face. " _No_. Don't you see? It's not—insignificant. It's the  _opposite_. B-But that's why it can't happen again. Otherwise... I'll lose sight of my duty. I-I'll start to wish things could be different, and they  _can't_. You  _know_  that." Tears dot her cheeks. She squeezes her eyes shut, as if to smother the accumulating weakness. "I can't  _choose_  another life, Haji. I'm not free to . . . not after everything I've done. The fewer choices I have, the better. But—th-that doesn't mean  _you_  have to suffer. You should find someone else. Someone who can be  _good_  to you—"

"I cannot, Saya. My place is with you."

Her cheeks redden. She cannot meet his eyes. "I just—I can't see how this can be enough for you. How  _I_  can be."

"What do you mean?"

She seems to shrink into herself. Tiny and morose. "I-I don't need to spell it out for you. This.  _Me_. I can't be what you  _want_. You're so good to me. Y-You make me feel  _perfect_. Except we both know I'm not. This—desire you have—it's probably situational. Once you're free from me, with women more your type—"

"My  _type_?" A heavy sensation—the inverse of shock—suffuses him.

She swallows hard. "Beautiful women.  _Sweet_  ones. Not the ones who make your life miserable. Not—heartless bloodthirsty harpies."

_Like her._

He shakes his head. She truly will stop at  _nothing_.

"You are not a harpy, Saya. And even if you were, it would not make any difference. Not to me." Gently, he strokes her cheek. "I could never belong anywhere else. Or  _with_  anyone else. Y-You make me happy. Like—"

"Like a wedding-tackle with a sackfull of notches?"

He winces. "There is no reason to be crude."

" _Crude_? You are calling  _me_  crude? Half the curses I didn't catch from David, I caught from  _you_." Her wan laugh fades before blooming. She blushes, lowering her eyes. "I-I'm sorry. If I… do make you happy, then I'm glad.  _So_  so glad. It's just—I thought what we did together—would make no difference to my duty. That I could just put it aside later. Except... it's too hard. Maybe it can be casual and cold for other people. Like—it was for you, with that girl. But it's not for me, and I can't—"

His first urge is to correct her. Nothing between him and that poor woman was  _casual_ or  _cold_. His own nature had made it impossible. Then he intuits her deeper message. "Is… what we did these few nights, difficult for you? Does it… make you unhappy?"

" _No_. I-I'm not… I feel safe with you… it's like I can…" Trailing off, she drops her head to his chest. A strange noise bubbles from her—not a sob but a laugh. "God. You're so hopeless, Haji. Hopeless and wonderful, and you don't even realize it. But everyone else can see it."

"I have no interest in everyone else."

_Just you._

"That's... what I thought you'd say." She raises her tearstained face. Smiles: dark and wistful. "Haji. If you really mean—to stay on with me, please promise me something?"

He's not even aware of tensing. "…Yes?"

"Promise you'll always stay as you are? No matter—how much things change. Or how much I do. Don't stop being the person you are now. And—and maybe, when this is all over—I mean, if things were ever different I could—ohgod. What am I saying? Things  _can't_  be different. But still, I can wish that—" She breaks off on blushing stammers.

The black cloud of her despair momentarily lifts. He sees a brief flash of the old Saya.

Amazing that parts of her still remain, undisturbed. The knowledge suffuses him with wild hope.

Kneeling abruptly, he snatches her close. Breathes her in, deep effortful gulps, his face pressed in her hair, her neck. Her arms come tight around him, and he squeezes her in even harder. They vibrate together, caught up in mutual outpouring emotion.

This close, he can feel her disquieting stillness. Her fading pulse. No way she will stay awake beyond today. Her hibernation is too close. Despair chokes him. He feels like a child being torn from his mother.

Her departure will leave him newly-orphaned and desolate.

"Saya." His voice is tight. "Don't go."

He doesn't simply mean into her Long Sleep.

She swallows, her head tucked under his chin. "I'm sorry, Haji. Maybe—if things were different I could make you promises. But I can't. I-I wish I had the choice to. But my duty has to come first. I started this war. And I have to finish it. Anything else—can't interfere with that. It'd be too much. I'm sorry."

He wants to tell her that she shouldn't be sorry. It does not matter if they cannot be lovers; he will still be her confidante, as long as she swears not to hold herself apart. He wants not to lose this closeness they've re-established. Wants her to stay as she was a few moments ago, when her darkness lifted, and she remembered herself as he first loved her.

But what he  _wants_  has nothing to do with what must be.

"It does not matter, Saya. I will continue to fight by your side. Not out of duty, but because I love you." The words are out before he can stop them. He wouldn't have the courage to say them at all. But his eyes are on the top of Saya's glossy head, her face hidden from view. "You are my reason to go on. Whatever else, that will not change."

The finality, the awfulness, of the words, suffuses the air. His heart judders; terrified yet-not at the confession. It has come out of nowhere, leaving him blindsided. At her mercy.

Except she must not believe him. She is so still.

He whispers. "Saya...?"

Then Saya's hand moves. Her fingers, curled into his shirt, go limp. A sigh escapes her. And, in a dreamlike slow-motion, her arm slips away. Haji hears a soft  _click-click_. Looking down, he sees her two diamond earrings. They have fallen from her palm, onto the carpet.

She was holding them all this time.

He watches them glitter—bright as tears. And on the floor above, that same music resonates. He recognizes the tune now. Schubert's  _Unvollendete_.

The thought barely registers before he understands something worse.

_Oh God._

His opportunity to confess has been usurped. Just like Saya—by the maw of Time. He can already feel her growing cold.

_No…_

There is a scream sounding in his head. His vision swims so everything fades, even Saya herself, and all he can feel is this excruciating sensation rising inside, everything in him churning as if in sickness. Then the scream isn't in his head anymore; it is a physical outrush racing through him, echoing in an inhuman snarl through the room, leaving him mute and disoriented in its wake.

When he can see again, he is still holding her tightly, shaking all over.

Taking a breath, he reins himself in. Loosens his hold on her. Sunlight makes Saya's face glow. A little smile curves her lips. Her expression is so peaceful—almost ethereal. But she is still as death.

For the next few decades, she may as well be.

A terrible heaviness settles over Haji. He feels, all at once, the full weight of his long years. But this body, eternal, ageless, will never show them. Never erode or change.

Nor will his vow to Saya.

_Even if I receive nothing, I will fight the war for you._

Because a love, a pure love, is its own reward. Duty has nothing to do with it. The knowledge imbues him; not an epiphany, but something much older. A feeling he has always carried.

Her body is cool and pliant. But he draws away gently, as if afraid of waking her. Presses a lingering kiss to her forehead.

_Have a pleasant sleep, Saya._

At the phone, he breaks the news. Waits in silence for Red Shield's medics to arrive. As they bundle Saya onto a stretcher, he remains where he is. His lethargy is not indifference. Merely a grief that cannot be expressed through speech or motion. But he does not expect these people to understand.

How could they?

Outside, traffic continues to roar. The faint music—the  _Unvollendete—_ has faded. But Haji can still hear it in his head. He wants to bind it to his memory. Go on listening to it forever.

 _Unvollendete_. Unfinished.

It is fitting.

Opening the door, the medics wheel Saya out. One of them calls to Haji: "You're expected at Mr. Goldschmidt's office. For the arrangements for your trip to Vietnam. Better get moving."

Haji is expressionless. "I understand."

The medic shuts the door. Haji hears him wheel Saya away. He knows the men will take her to one of Red Shield's facilities. Put her in a special container, readying it for travel. Soon, the news will spread through the organization.

Otonashi Saya has gone into hibernation.

Hollowed out, he stands by the window. Watches the city. Ten minutes later, he cannot feel Saya's presence in the building anymore.

All that remains is her katana, the fallen earrings, and her scent on the rumpled bedsheets.

Reminders—not of the girl—but of  _duty_.

The phone rings.

Haji answers mechanically. "Yes."

"What the  _fuck_ , Haji! Who said you could screen your goddamn calls? I've been trying to reach you guys all morning!"

He exhales. "I apologize, David. We were indisposed."

" _Indisposed_? My ass. At it like rabbits, more like. God have mercy on whoever has to change your bed-sheets. Now listen. We've caught wind of a laboratory—sponsored by Goldsmith holdings. The place is loaded with Chiropterans. I mean  _stocked, locked and_   _loaded_."

"Should that be our concern? I thought Red Shields understanding with America was finished."

"It was. But 'new talks' opened up last night. The US has given our guys permission to contain the Chiropterans. Provided we bring back  _live samples_. But so far, the boys're just wasting ammo. We need you and Saya to lend a hand.  _Pronto_."

"All right." He pauses. "Saya cannot be there."

"What do you mean? Is she injured?"

"No."

"Then what?" An uneasy chuckle. "Tell me you didn't really screw her dead? 'Cause it's one thing to joke about it. But it's creepy and fucked-up to—"

"She could not fight if she wanted to, David."

"What?" A bemused silence. Then the pieces fall into place. "Oh." David's voice sobers. "…Oh. Oh shit." He fumbles for words. "I—I'm fucking sorry. I didn't think she was—"

"Give me your location. My meeting with Monsieur Goldschmidt may wait."

"…Are—are you sure? Look. It might be better to—"

"Your location, David." He has miseries to vent. Bones to snap and blood to spill. If it worked for Saya, it will work for him.

At least, for a little while.

"Okay. Okay. Cool your jets." David sounds slightly uneasy. "Make a note. We're at the…"

Haji shelves away the address. But his eyes are on the space by the window. Saya's mug still rests on the sill. In his mind, he can almost see her beside it. Her small sweet face in the frame of tangled hair. The eyes regarding him with such pensive intensity. Mystic, fierce, and so beautiful. The vision is so powerful he cannot move.

_Saya…_

_You will be able to choose a better future someday._

_I promise._

"—Hey, Haji? You get all that?"

He takes a moment to remember where he is. "…Yes. I did."

"Great. Just get here fast. And make sure you don't—" Haji hears a  _crash_  on David's end. There is a series of roars, and deafening gunfire. "–ah. For  _Christ's_  sake! ...Gotta go. Duty calls."

With a  _click_ , he disconnects.

Exhaling, Haji sets the phone in its cradle. Stares again at the window, at the place Saya would be. But his every sense tells him she is not there. She will not be, for a long time.

Moments later, cello-case and katana in tow, he has exited the building.

_This war will not rule our lives forever, Saya._

_I will spend every moment ensuring it._

Until then…

_'I hold my duty as I hold my soul…'_

* * *

 


	36. Coda: Come Sopra

**Come Sopra:**  As above, or like the previous tempo.

* * *

 _If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,_  
Absent thee from felicity awhile,  
And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,  
To tell my story.

— _Hamlet_ , Act 5, Scene 2.

* * *

In the pale afternoon glow, Saya sat by her window.

The room—her old one at OMORO—was filled with cardboard boxes. Heaps of clothes and shoes. Schoolbooks. Posters and note-binders. In one of the boxes, she even found her old track-team uniform. The _Otonashi_  stitched to the blouse was frayed, but legible.

The entire room smelled like memories—dusty and bittersweet. Each object a fresh discovery; a haunting reminder.

Saya smiled.

Downstairs, she heard the radio warbling, punctuated by Kai clattering in the kitchen. He was cooking for tonight's big gathering—the restaurant's unofficial reopening.

A fresh start. A new future. The sort of thing she thought of, whenever she looked at Diva's daughters, cooing in their crib. Tiny pink hands reaching for her, their murderer-turned-savior. Reminding her, with the surreal miracle of their presence, that life was a cycle of stops and starts.

Old and new. Life and death.

Selfishness and duty.

( _We have to keep them_ , Kai holds the two squirming babies in his arms. She is stunned by his teary eyes. Her own are swollen, dried out. Haji's disappearance at the Met is stamped indelibly into her memory. It will be two weeks, perhaps more, before she can bring herself to think of anything else.)

(But for Kai, she tries.  _Keep them? Why?_ These children are the offspring of the woman who killed Riku. Why would Kai want to...?)

( _Don't you get it?_  Kai is smiling.  _It's like having Riku back again. It's like me and Riku, when Dad first took us in. We had nothing. Neither do these children. Saya—can't you see...?)_

(She freezes, wanting to say,  _Of course I can.)_

(And, at the corner of her eye, the spectral image of Haji seems to nod.  _It is a duty you owe to these children. To those who died. And to yourself_.)

Death and vengeance only led to more death and vengeance. But love begot so much more. She had mistaken the former for her duty. Allowed it to consume her very existence.

But now—at last—she could let that go.

_Live on. He asked me to live on._

For him, for everyone, and above all, for herself, she would try.

The dresser was scattered with girlthings. Lipgloss and mascara. Sparkly hair barrettes. Necklaces in an antique lacquered jewelry-box. Funny. It looked so much like... One memory supplanted the next. Suddenly, she remembered being a longhaired, corseted lady at the Zoo. Smell of sandalwood and lilacs strong in her nose, overpowering, for one second, the more immediate scent of garlic wafting from downstairs.

Overpowering, for a second more, the ever-flickering image of Haji, as he was buried beneath the crumbling Met.

 _Haji_...

Her smile wavered.

_I promise. I won't forget,_

Her Long Sleep was close. It had been a constant threat during their battle with Diva, dark poison tendrilling into her bloodstream. But now, that very darkness felt like a part of her.

She would not, she knew, stay awake beyond tonight's gathering.

It was just as well. She wanted the last thing she remembered to be the faces of her family. Smiling, laughing. Just as her last memory was of Haji—smiling through the haze of debris.

_I will always love you, Saya..._

Her eyes burned, but there were no tears. There were moments in your life when you were beyond grief.

 _Haji_.

He was gone, but she could still feel his presence. Her reality was absolute, absorbing. But that did not mean her past ever slipped away. Sometimes she could sense his calm shadow looming over her. Other times, she heard the low murmur of his voice, felt his cool phantom hand on her brow.

Lending her, even now, strength in his silence.

Outside her window, the park was bathed in sunshine. The scenery looked so perfect. Children playing and squealing. Teenagers riding bikes. Dogs barking. Everyone serene, carefree. A completely different world from the war.

Okinawa was still exactly the same. It was only she who was different.

( _But not so different_ , Kai shrugs, the first time she says it. Brave, no-nonsense, still smiling even after his entire world has crumbled. But that is what makes Kai so strong, she knows. The fact that he never gives up.)

(She wants him to go on smiling that way, for the rest of his life.)

( _Come on,_  he teases.  _If you think this place is the same, just check out the gunk in the fridge. That shit was_ never _around when we left. This whole place needs fixing up. Let's get to it.)_

And they had. Cleaning the windows. Vacuuming the carpets. Polishing the tables. Months of neglect, which had shrouded the store, were swept away. They were left behind with an OMORO that was both brand new, yet just like before. Still a place of warmth and laughter, even after so many ups and downs.

(Side by side, in the radiance of the setting sun, they face the entrance. Kai yawns and stretches, arms crossed behind his head.  _We should change the sign at the door,_  he says,  _Put a_ Kai Miyagusuku _and_ Otonashi Saya _under the_ Owned By George _. That way, you'll always know your place is here. This is where you belong.)_

(Saya doesn't know what to say to that. But her face feels so warm.  _A place where I belong._ )

(If Haji were here, she's sure he would smile.)

She and Kai had also rearranged the motley assortment of pictures on the wall below. There were new additions to it now. An unearthed photo of Riku at a picnic, his nose in a book, a faraway smile on his lips. George, and Kai-at-fifteen, roughhousing at a barbecue—a rare moment of lightness during Kai's surly post-broken-elbow era. The picture of the three siblings in Paris, its edges crumpled, but their faces—and the vibrant memory of their last shopping trip—unchanged. And a picture she'd never seen before, but which Kai said David gave to him from a private collection.

It had Haji and David's father, the former David. In a jungle in Vietnam, posing like big-game hunters before a live, open-mawed crocodile. Haji: pale, amused, graceful. David: rugged, dynamic, laughing.

She wondered what they were thinking, when this bizarre photograph was taken.

 _(When he comes back_ , Kai says mildly, putting the photo in place.  _You can ask him.)_

(She nods, but not at Kai's remark. When Haji came back—if he came back—)

_There is this beach I know in Okinawa too, Haji. I wish you could see it. The water is so blue…_

She moved away from the window-sill. Settled on the edge of her bed, a half-open journal lying there. Miss Julia had advised Saya, when they first got home, to keep one. She wanted Saya to write in it—a paragraph, a line—stating at least one happy thought. One reason to live, every single day. Saya knew, in a vague sort of way, that Julia, like Kai and the others, was afraid she would go off the deep end. She'd weathered through the worst of her journey, but they didn't want to take chances.

There were no guarantees for a girl who'd sustained herself for decades on a death-wish.

And so, for them, for herself, Saya had written. At first, it was a line a day. Basic things like  _Kai_ , or  _the_   _beach_.  _My nieces. Kaori. Onigiri. Boiled eggs._ But, as time went on, funny incidents at OMORO, or at school. Sometimes, recollections of happy memories during her amnesia. Or even, if she could manage it, moments of levity during the war.

_I'll just lie back... and think of England._

_England? God… Why should_ anyone _think of England?_

She giggled. Her reflection in the mirror ahead, despite the short bobbed hair, struck her as so strange. Nothing like she'd been in the war, pared of all softness, a deadly weapon existing to dispense Death. But nothing like she'd been at the Zoo either—a selfish not-so-selfish girl with eyes full of questions and a head full of fantasies.

For now, she was that sweet-faced, happy-go-lucky schoolgirl again. The one who'd looked not at the past or future, but the present.

That was all she knew, and it was enough for her.

Except she wasn't that girl anymore. Something in her  _had_  changed, and still kept changing, altering in color and depth from moment to moment. Her amnesiac self, reborn into a façade of purity, now merely reminded her of what she'd once said to Haji:

_I almost wish I was two different Sayas. One to be cold and heartless and fight the war. And the other to be clean and innocent. To live her life all over again._

Sometimes, when Saya jerked awake from nightmares now, reliving the ugliness of the past—or when she tensed at odd moments, her skin clammy with cold sweat as she contemplated her unknown future, she half-missed that cradle of oblivion.

She'd been safe then. She'd been... clean.

But she would never take it back. It was better this way, with all her memories intact. She wouldn't be herself without them. She wouldn't remember all the people who died in the war. And that would mean their sacrifices meant nothing.

She couldn't abide by that.

On cue, she heard, right in her ear, Haji's whisper:

_Regardless of how difficult the memories are?_

She nodded. Under her glowy apple-cheeked face, sudden traces of her past self resurfaced. The steely fighter in the war. Determined to see every battle to the end.

_If the memories are difficult, then it only makes me happier to be where I am. Back then, I'd never dreamed this could happen. That I'd have a second chance._

_Did you, Haji?_

She knew she would receive no answer. But she could imagine what Haji would say.

_(It was something I always wanted, yes. But it was never something I could act on. We each had our duties to consider.)_

She smiled, rueful.

_And you don't miss that, Haji? Having a_ _duty_ _? Remember how you once told me it's what gives your life a purpose? Without it, existence would be all—all 'shapeless and wobbly', like a fat countess._

_(The 'fat countess' was your contribution, Saya. Not mine_.)

She almost giggled again. But if Kai saw her acting strangely, it would disturb him. He might decide tonight's party would be too much strain for her, and call it off. She didn't want him to do that.

During the war, she'd tried to distance herself from her family, because she'd thought it was her duty to protect them. Except it was only herself she had hurt. She didn't want any more distance between her loved ones. She didn't want any more pain.

Her duty today wasn't to fulfill an ancient blood-feud, but to live for tomorrow. Kai, Riku, her father, Solomon, Haji... everyone who supported her, fought for her, they had all taught her that.

_I won't forget._

_I promise, I won't forget._

She picked up her journal. The blank page—her last entry—beckoned. She knew she wouldn't be able to write again after tonight. An impromptu collection of words and phrases, the journal would remain as it was, unfinished. Maybe Kai would read it later, and put his own thoughts in there ( _oh please. Kai never touches books; they always put him to sleep._ ) Maybe her nieces would read it, and better understand their aunt, who had killed their mother out of misguided hatred, but who, despite it, felt nothing for them but love.

Or maybe...

Maybe…

Maybe when Haji returned, he'd read these pages. And maybe—finally—he'd understand the truth of her feelings, spelled out as clearly as he'd stated his own.

_I always loved you._

_But I just couldn't… couldn't make myself admit it._

_We both had our duties to fulfill._

The sudden idea gave her impetus. Picking up her pen, she paused. If Kai ever read this, the embarrassment would kill him. But she was positive he wouldn't touch an entry written in old French. Perhaps, one day, he'd even grow perceptive enough to realize the words weren't meant for him.

_And if not, my nieces will certainly keep him occupied._

Smiling, Saya started to write. The words flowed in a delicate script, like floral etchings. If Haji saw the writing, he would instantly recognize it. After all, it was she who had taught him to write this way.

Just as he, in his own way, had repaid the favor by teaching her how to live.

_It was never just about duty. Not for you, or for me._

_I understand that now._

The words came slowly at first. But soon, pages were filled, a  _come sopra_  of relived memory. The first few lines, like the prelude of a penny-dreadful novella, began like this:

_"New York, 1968. It was a chilly December evening. Haji and I had just stepped off the 6-train…"_

* * *

 


End file.
